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CARMEN   SYLVA 

AND 

SKETCHES    FROM   THE  ORIENT 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NKW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •    CHICAGO 
DALLAS   •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MKLBOURNB 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


(Ox. 


')ya4/rrfye^n.  .JMi/^./<i-' 


CARMEN  SYLVA 

AND 

SKETCHES  FROM  THE  ORIENT 

BY 

PIERRE   LOTI 

MEMBER  OF   THE  FRENCH   ACADEMY 

AUTHORIZED   TRANSLATION 

BY 

FRED   ROTHWELL 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1912 

AH  rights  reserved 


COPYMGHT,  I919, 

By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  November,  1913. 


KorfDooti  ^xtts 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


STACK 
ANNEX 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Carmen  Sylva i 

The  Exile 27 

Constantinople  in  1890 87 

Serpent  Charmers 151 

A  Few  Forgotten  Pages  of  "Madame  Chrys- 

ANTHkME" 157 

Japanese  Women  in  1890 177 


CARMEN   SYLVA 


CARMEN   SYLVA 

November,  1887. 

|URING  my  wanderings,  I  once 
chanced  to  spend  a  few  days  with 
a  fairy,  in  an  enchanted  castle. 
The  distant  sound  of  a  horn  in 
the  forest  depths  invariably  brings  back  to 
my  mind  the  most  trivial  incidents  of  this 
visit. 

The  reason  was  that  the  fairy's  castle  lay  in 
the  very  heart  of  a  densely  wooded  forest  in 
which  the  distant  blasts  of  martial  trumpets 
were  constantly  heard  resounding  on  every  side. 
There  was  a  strange,  weird  melancholy  of  its 
own  about  the  sound,  resembHng  some  magic 
call,  in  the  vibrant  air  we  breathed,  —  the 
silent,  pure,  invigorating  air  of  the  mountain 
peaks.  .  .  . 

For  me,  music  has  a  power  of  evocation  that 
is  absolute ;   fragments  of  melodies  heard  years 
3 


4  Carmen  Sylva 

ago  remind  me,  far  better  than  any  visual  image 
would  do,  of  certain  spots  I  have  seen,  certain 
persons  who  have  come  into  my  life. 

And  so  whenever  I  hear  a  distant  clarion  call, 
there  arises  before  my  mind,  as  distinctly  as 
though  I  were  actually  present,  a  royal  boudoir 
(for  the  fairy  of  whom  I  speak  is  a  queen  as 
well)  whose  lofty  Gothic  windows  overlook  an 
endless  stretch  of  green  firs,  thickly  clustered 
together  as  in  a  primeval  forest.  The  boudoir, 
stored  with  a  profusion  of  valuable  objects, 
possesses  a  rather  gloomy  kind  of  splendour, 
the  colour  of  these  objects  being  indefinable : 
faint  crimson  turning  a  tawny  hue,  and  dark- 
ened gold  tints  assuming  the  look  of  smoulder- 
ing embers ;  there  are  galleries  resembUng  small 
inner  balconies,  large  heavy  hangings  that  con- 
ceal recesses  full  of  mystery.  .  .  .  And  there 
the  fairy  reappears  before  me,  dressed  all  in 
white  and  wearing  a  long  veil ;  she  is  seated  in 
front  of  an  easel,  painting  on  parchment  — 
Byzantine  fashion  —  with  light,  easy  touch,  the 
most  wonderful  archaic  illuminations,  in  which 
gold  is  the  predominant  colour:  work  antique 


Carmen  Sylva  5 

which  she  had  begun  three  years  previously,  a 
priceless  missal,  intended  for  a  cathedral. 

The  fairy's  white  robe  is  Oriental  in  form, 
woven  and  worked  in  silver  thread.  But  the 
face,  emerging  from  out  the  veil's  transparent 
folds,  bears  that  inexpressibly  gentle  though 
somewhat  sad  expression  which  belongs  to  none 
but  the  most  refined  Northern  races.  And  yet 
the  general  effect  is  so  harmonious  that  one 
would  think  the  dress  had  been  invented  for 
the  fairy  who  wears  it,  and  for  no  one  else,  — 
the  fairy  who  somewhere  said :  "Dress  is  not  a 
matter  of  indifference.  It  makes  of  you  a  liv- 
ing work  of  art,  the  sole  condition  being  that 
you  adorn  that  which  adorns  you." 

How  shall  we  describe  the  features  of  this 
queen  ?  This  is  a  delicate,  a  difficult  task,  for 
the  ordinary  expressions  one  would  use  are  imme- 
diately rejected  as  irreverent,  so  instinct  with 
respect  is  the  feeling  she  arouses  within  the 
soul.  The  light  of  eternal  youth  is  in  her  smile, 
on  her  velvet-pink  cheeks,  shining  and  dancing 
in  the  laughter  of  her  beauteous  lips.  Her 
magnificent  tresses,  however,  visible  through  the 


6  Carmen  Sylva 

silver-spangled  veil,  are  almost  white !  .  .  . 
"White  locks,"  she  wrote  in  her  Thoughts,  "are 
the  foam-topped  waves  which  ride  upon  the  sea 
after  a  storm." 

And  what  words  could  express  the  unrivalled 
charm  of  her  glance,  of  those  clear  grey  eyes, 
somewhat  overshadowed  by  the  broad  open 
forehead :  the  charm  of  a  lofty  intelligence,  a 
discreet,  sympathetic  power  of  penetration, 
habitual  suffering,  and  a  wide-embracing  pity? 
The  countenance  almost  continually  changes 
its  expression,  although  the  smile  can  scarcely 
ever  be  said  to  be  absent.  "It  is  part  of  our 
role,"  she  once  said  to  me,  "to  be  constantly 
smiling  .  .  .  like  idols."  But  there  are  many 
differences,  many  varieties  of  this  queenly 
smile:  suddenly  it  appears  as  frank,  almost 
childish,  gaiety;  often  it  is  a  smile  of  mingled 
resignation  and  melancholy,  —  at  times,  even,  of 
infinite  sadness. 

With  one  of  the  many  sorrows  that  have 
turned  white  the  hair  of  this  sovereign  I  am 
acquainted,  —  can  I  not  understand  it  better 
than   another  ?  —  and   I   will    tell   it.     In   the 


Carmen  Sylva  7 

centre  of  a  large  garden  adjoining  the  royal 
residence  stood  the  tomb  of  a  little  princess, 
who  had  inherited  the  features  and  the  beauti- 
ful broad  forehead  of  the  queen  by  whose  orders 
I  was  conducted  to  the  spot. 

On  the  tombstone  was  inscribed  the  follow- 
ing sentence :  "Weep  not;  she  is  not  dead,  but 
sleepeth."  And  indeed,  the  small  recumbent 
statue  did  seem  to  be  peacefully  sleeping  in  its 
marble  robe. 

"Weep  not."  Nevertheless,  the  mother  of  the 
little  sleeping  damsel  still  bitterly  mourns  her 
only  child.  A  phrase  she  often  used  comes  back 
to  my  mind,  as  though  some  voice  within  my- 
self were  repeating  it  in  sloW,  funereal  accents : 
"A  home  without  a  child  is  like  a  bell  without  a 
tongue :  the  sound  slumbering  within  might 
be  very  musical,  could  it  only  be  aroused  to 
hfe." 

How  distinctly  I  remember  every  moment  of 
those  exquisite  conversations  with  that  white- 
robed  queen,  as  we  sat  in  the  sombre  boudoir. 
At  the  beginning  of  these  notes,  I  spoke  of 
a  fairy :  that  was  my  way  of  referring  to  a  being 


8  Carmen  Sylva 

of  superior  essence.  I  could  not  use  the  word 
angel,  which,  through  misuse,  has  become  anti- 
quated and  ridiculous.  Moreover,  the  word 
fairy,  interpreted  as  I  understand  it,  seems  to 
me  quite  applicable  to  this  woman  —  youthful 
in  spite  of  her  grey  locks;  smiling  through  a 
mist  of  tears ;  a  daughter  of  the  North  and  yet 
a  queen  of  the  Orient ;  speaking  many  languages 
and  transforming  each  into  perfect  music; 
ever  fascinating,  possessing  the  gift  of  creating 
aroimd  her  —  sometimes  merely  by  the  aid  of 
a  genial  smile  —  a  kind  of  beneficent  charm,  of 
the  most  reassuring  and  consoHng  nature. 

Thus  do  I  call  back  to  mind  the  queen  with 
her  flowing  veil  (no  longer  dare  I  speak  of  the 
fairy,  now  that  I  have  defined  her  more  openly). 
She  is  speaking  to  me  as  she  sits  before  her 
easel,  whilst  archaic  drawings,  which  seem  the 
natural  offspring  of  her  fingers,  succeed  one 
another  on  the  parchment  of  the  missal.  By  the 
side  of  Her  Majesty  sit  two  or  three  young  ladies, 
her  maids  of  honour,  —  dark-complexioned  girls 
wearing  strange-coloured  gold-spangled  Oriental 
costumes;    they  are  engaged  either  in  reading. 


Carmen  Sylva  9 

or  in  embroidering  on  silk  large,  old-fashioned 
flowers.  They  raise  their  eyes  from  time  to 
time,  whenever  the  conversation  appears  to 
interest  them  more  particularly.  The  place 
Her  Majesty  generally  appoints  for  me  is  in 
front  of  herself,  near  a  large  single-paned  win- 
dow, which  offers  the  illusion  of  opening  out 
upon  the  surrounding  forest.  With  true  artis- 
tic feeling,  the  king  had  allowed  the  forest  to 
approach  within  twenty  paces  of  the  walls; 
the  result  being  that  the  windows  of  the  royal 
apartments  look  upon  nothing  but  gigantic 
firs  and  undergrowth,  —  or  wide-spreading  ver- 
dant stretches,  the  sylvan  peaks  of  the  Car- 
pathians rising  tier  upon  tier  in  the  limpid 
atmosphere.  And  the  forest,  which  you  feel 
to  be  close  at  hand,  creates  an  impression  of 
enchantment,  of  mystery,  within  the  magnifi- 
cent castle.  .  .  . 

Whole  sentences,  spoken  by  the  queen  in 
sweet,  musical  tones,  come  back  to  my  mind. 
I  replied  almost  in  whispered  accents,  for  the 
quiet,  meditative  atmosphere  of  a  church  seemed 


lo  Carmen  Sylva 

present  in  this  boudoir.  I  remember,  too,  those 
occasional  silences  after  some  profound  utter- 
ance whose  meaning  seemed  to  gain  in  intensity 
by  reason  of  the  prevaiKng  calm.  It  was  then, 
during  these  intervals  of  silence,  that  I  heard 
—  as  though  coming  from  the  distant  confines 
of  the  forest  —  those  unknown,  military  sounds 
resembling  that  of  a  horn.  It  was  autumn,  and 
I  even  remember  the  following  insignificant 
detail :  the  last  few  moths  and  flies  that  had 
heedlessly  flown  into  this  sumptuous  tomb  to 
die  dashed  their  poor  wings  against  the  large, 
transparent  glass  mndow  by  my  side. 

As  I  have  said,  the  queen's  voice  was  pure 
music,  —  music  as  delightful  and  fresh  as  it 
was  instinct  with  youth !  I  do  not  think  I 
ever  heard  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  could  com- 
pare with  hers,  that  I  ever  listened  to  any  one 
reading  with  like  charm.  On  the  morrow  of 
my  arrival,  Her  Majesty  had  expressed  curiosity 
as  to  what  I  thought  of  a  certain  German  poem, 
imknown  to  me.  In  the  course  of  a  private 
conversation,  her  secretary  put  me  on  my 
guard:   "If  the  queen  reads  it  to  you  herself," 


Carmen  Sylva  ii 

he  said,  "you  will  be  unable  to  judge;  no  mat- 
ter what  the  queen  reads,  it  always  appears 
delightful,  —  Uke  the  songs  she  sings,  —  but  if 
you  take  up  the  book  afterwards,  to  read  alone, 
it  is  not  at  all  the  same  thing  and  you  are  often 
completely  disillusioned." 

Subsequently  I  discovered  how  true  this 
warning  was;  being  privileged  to  listen  whilst 
Her  Majesty  was  reading  to  the  ladies  of  the 
Court,  certain  chapters  from  a  book  of  mine, 
I  actually  failed  to  recognise  my  own  work,  so 
embellished  and  transfigured  did  it  appear. 

Of  the  whole  castle,  appearing  in  the  midst 
of  that  forest,  like  an  artist's  dream  which  the 
touch  of  a  magic  wand  had  made  real,  my 
memory  retains  nothing  so  distinctly  as  this 
boudoir.  Already  there  is  something  vague  and 
indistinct  in  what  I  can  recall  of  those  long 
galleries  with  their  heavy  hangings  and  ancient 
panophes;  those  stairs  up  and  down  which 
passed  maids  of  honour,  ushers,  or  lackeys; 
those  Renaissance  rooms  which  made  one  think 
of  an  inhabited  Louvre,  a  Louvre  in  times  of 


12  Carmen  Sylva 

royalty;  that  music  room,  so  conducive  to 
reverie,  lofty  and  dim,  with  its  wonderful 
stained  windows,  and  containing  the  great 
organ  which  the  queen  played  in  the  evenings 
.  .  .  whereas  I  immediately  recall  without  the 
slightest  diflSculty  the  room  in  which  Her 
Majesty  was  at  times  so  gracious  as  to  receive 
me,  when  she  was  engaged  in  painting  or  some 
other  occupation.  After  being  permitted  to 
pass  those  double  doors,  it  seemed  as  though 
one  had  entered  some  serene  abode  from  which 
so  many  persons  and  interests  are  shut  out. 
It  is  there  I  always  prefer  to  think  of  this  queen, 
whose  guest  I  was.  When  she  walked  across 
the  boudoir,  her  white  costume  contrasted  strik- 
ingly with  the  dark  background  formed  by  the 
door  hangings  or  the  rare  woodwork  sketches 
made  by  armies  of  sculptors.  When  she  was 
seated  working,  from  the  place  she  had  assigned 
to  me  the  first  day  and  which  I  was  wont  to 
take  afterwards,  I  saw  her  face  and  veil  appear 
prominent  in  front  of  that  great,  that  superb 
painting  of  Delacroix,  La  Mise  au  tombeau  du 
Christ.    And  invariably,  on  either  side  of  her, 


Carmen  Sylva  13 

sat  the  young  ladies  in  Oriental  costumes, 
completing  a  picture  I  would  gladly  have  trans- 
ferred to  canvas,  had  I  been  able.  From 
time  to  time  these  little  maids  of  honour,  all 
so  different  in  aspect  and  features,  changed  and 
took  each  other's  place.  When  one  had  left 
the  room,  another  was  seen  at  the  entrance 
door,  raising  the  hangings  with  their  large,  heavy 
folds.  After  the  usual  ceremonial  courtesy,  she 
advanced,  and  kissed  the  queen's  hand,  — 
sometimes  sitting  on  the  ground  at  her  feet  and 
leaning  her  head  on  the  queen's  knees,  in  a 
caressing,  though  respectful,  attitude.  Then 
the  queen  would  explain,  with  a  plaintive, 
motherly  smile,  that  she  regarded  them  as  her 
own  "daughters."  To  my  mind,  what  con- 
stituted the  one  attraction  of  this  smile,  more 
than  aught  else,  was  its  excessive  kindness  and 
benevolence. 

How  well,  too,  do  I  remember  these  young 
ladies,  who  every  morning  shook  hands  with 
me  so  simply  and  gracefully,  with  such  an  air 
of  friendliness  !  On  reaching  the  Court,  I  had 
been  surprised  to  hear  them  all,  in  spite  of  their 


14  Carmen  Sylva 

Oriental  costumes,  speaking  in  the  most  elegant 
French  and  with  the  purest  accent,  on  all  kinds 
of  novel  and  intelligent  topics,  like  Parisiennes 
of  the  best  society  —  perhaps  even  better  than 
Parisiennes  of  their  own  age,  with  more  real 
learning,  and  less  conventionality  and  frivolity. 
One  felt  that  the  queen  had  moulded  to  her  own 
liking  this  nursery  of  the  Roumanian  aristocracy, 
amongst  whom  French  is  the  language  usually 
spoken. 

The  first  time  I  had  the  honour  of  conversing 
with  Her  Majesty,  I  was  not  greatly  astonished 
at  hearing  her  speak  in  a  superior  fashion  of 
superior  things,  for  I  knew  this  would  be  the 
case.  But,  in  her  position  as  a  queen,  as  one 
who  had  to  wear  the  "constant  smile  of  an  idol," 
I  imagined  she  must  have  been  ignorant  of 
certain  of  the  deepest  troubles  and  sorrows  of 
the  human  soul.  Great  was  my  astonishment, 
however,  to  find  that  she  was  well  acquainted 
with  the  woes  and  miseries  of  the  humblest  as 
well  as  of  the  greatest.  For  the  queen  to  be  of 
this  nature,  a  sad  and  austere  childhood  in  a 


Carmen  Sylva  15 

castle  away  in  the  North  was  needed ;  a  child- 
hood purposely  kept  away  from  Court  life,  and 
brought  into  continual  contact  with  the  poor 
on  her  father's  estate.  To  make  her  so  kind- 
hearted  and  accessible  to  all  who  suffer,  her 
early  education  must  have  been  a  simple,  family 
one,  doubtless  such  as  her  mother,  the  princess 
of  Wied,  and  her  aunt,  the  Queen  of  Sweden, 
had  received.  Then  followed  a  kind  of  pil- 
grimage through  Europe,  to  London,  Paris, 
the  Courts  of  BerUn  and  Saint  Petersburg,  in 
the  company  of  her  aunt,  the  grand  duchess 
Helene  of  Russia.  And  in  the  countries  she 
visited,  the  greatest  masters  stored  her  mind 
with  a  transcendent  resume,  as  it  were,  of  hu- 
man knowledge,  with  the  quintessence  of  the 
world's  literature.  Then  followed  the  long 
series  of  years  on  the  throne  of  Roumania.  .  .  . 
She  was  stiU  quite  young  when  she  came  to 
this  unsettled  land,  and  must  have  gazed  with 
astonishment  on  many  a  drama.  The  lonely 
and  the  widowed,  childless  mothers  and  mother- 
less girls,  instantly  became  her  friends.  She 
regarded  it  as  the  duty  of  a  queen  never  to  turn 


1 6  Carmen  Syiva  . 

a  deaf  ear  to  affliction  and  sorrow,  however 
heartrending,  —  it  was  her  role  to  comfort  and 
reconcile,  to  pardon  and  obliterate.  .  .  .  Her 
adopted  "daughters,"  brought  up  by  her  side 
in  the  palace,  were  always  chosen  preferably 
from  amongst  families  afflicted  with  some  mys- 
terious misfortune  or  bereavement,  and  those 
who  tearfully  left  her,  when  entering  upon  mar- 
ried life,  seem  to  have  retained  in  their  hearts 
feelings  of  profound  reverence  and  affection  for 
the  queen. 

Boundless,  unrestricted  pity,  all-pardoning 
and  all-embracing,  expecting  nothing  in  return, 
such,  to  my  mind,  is  the  rare,  the  somewhat 
superhuman  gift  with  which  time  and  suffering, 
deception  and  ingratitude,  have  endowed  this 
queen.  But  with  that  ardent  nature  of  hers, 
that  passionate  enthusiasm  for  everything  noble 
and  beautiful,  she  must  have  passed  through 
many  a  surprise,  submitted  to  many  an  indig- 
nity, and  felt  the  stirrings  of  many  a  rebellion, 
before  winning  that  ultra-terrestrial  smile  which 
seems  to  form  an  integral  part  of  her  being. 
"Almost   everyone  of   us  has   passed   through 


Carmen  Sylva  17 

his  Gethsemane  and  his  Calvary,"  she  wrote 
once;  "Those  who  rise  again  belong  to  earth  no 
more." 

Amongst  my  most  deUghtful  recollections  of 
the  castle  of  Sinaia  I  count  the  morning  walks 
along  the  forest  paths.  It  was  then  that  I  was 
permitted  to  converse  with  Her  Majesty  at 
greater  length.  The  Court  life  at  Sinaia,  which 
is  in  a  wild  part  of  the  country,  high  in  the  Car- 
pathians, was  simpler  than  in  the  large  stately 
palace  of  Bucharest,  both  king  and  queen 
showing  themselves  so  gracious  and  admitting 
their  guest  into  all  the  charm  of  family  life. 

Generally  about  nine  o'clock,  with  the  sun 
shining  gaily  through  the  fresh  morning  air, 
and  near  the  end  of  September,  an  usher  would 
knock  at  my  door  and  say  in  Roumanian  ac- 
cents: ''Her  Majesty  is  about  to  take  a  walk, 
and  is  asking  for  you  down-stairs,  captain." 
I  immediately  descended,  running  down  the 
soft-carpeted  stairs,  with  armoured  panoplies 
on  either  side.  Below,  I  found  the  queen  smil- 
ing, her  fine  figure,  with  its  graceful  lines,  en- 
cased   in    a    European    robe    of    white    cloth 


1 8  Carmen  Sylva 

etiquette  requiring  the  Roumanian  costume  and 
long  veil  only  inside  the  castle).  By  her  side, 
dressed  in  black  and  leaning  on  her  arm,  stood 
the  Princess  of  HohenzoUern  (the  mother  of 
King  Charles  and  of  the  late  Queen  of  Por- 
tugal). Then  came  two  or  three  maids  of 
honour,  no  longer  wearing  Oriental  costume,  but 
dressed  like  fashionable  yoimg  ladies  of  the 
West,  in  neutral  tints,  somewhat  after  the  Eng- 
lish style,  —  giving  them  the  appearance  of 
quite  different  persons,  so  great  was  the  change. 

The  keen  mountain  air  was  delightful  to 
breathe.  The  sun  shone  brightly  with  that 
glorious  light  so  usual  in  the  Levant.  On 
grass  and  moss  were  mirrored  drops  of  dew, 
little  crystals  of  hoar-frost,  as  we  started  along 
the  sandy  paths  which  straightway  disappeared 
in  the  forest,  beneath  the  giant  firs. 

The  queen  seemed  happy  and  tranquil.  As 
at  all  times,  her  countenance  wore  an  expres- 
sion of  reposeful  freshness,  —  and  yet  she  had 
been  working  four  or  five  hours,  having  risen 
before  the  dawn,  the  first  in  the  castle  to  be 
astir.     Ensconced  in  a  cosey  Httle  corner,  she 


Carmen  Sylva  19 

had  already  ended  her  daily  task,  written  out 
her  orders,  finished  her  letters,  and  covered 
several  pages  of  foolscap  with  her  dainty,  free 
handwriting.  All  this  so  that  she  might  be 
free  to  attend  to  her  "daughters"  and  guests 
and  give  herself  up  wholly  to  visitors  and  music, 
to  conversation  and  games. 

From  time  to  time.  King  Charles  joined  in 
these  morning  walks.  The  worthy  soldier  always 
appeared  wearing  his  miHtary  tunic  buttoned 
from  top  to  bottom. 

Now  that  I  have  mentioned  him,  I  will  say  a 
few  words  regarding  his  general  aspect.  He  had 
a  benevolent,  grave  countenance,  with  very 
refined,  regular  features.  His  beard  was  raven 
black.  A  deep,  anxious  line  furrowed  his  brow, 
generally  giving  his  face  a  gloomy  expression, 
but  his  smile  redeemed  everything,  —  a  kind, 
attractive  smile,  like  the  queen's.  And  what 
distinction  and  simplicity,  what  natural  grace 
and  majesty !  How  perfect  the  courtesy  he 
showed  towards  his  guests ! 

Generally  the  king  would  walk  apart  from 
the  rest,  accompanied  by  the  Princess  of  Hohen- 


20  Carmen  Sylva 

zollern,  and  the  queen  refrained  from  breaking 
upon  the  tete-a-tele  of  mother  and  son,  united 
by  such  a  bond  of  affection,  and  who  were  des- 
tined so  soon  to  be  separated  (I  also  remember 
the  farewell  day  on  which  the  princess  returned 
to  Germany,  and  we  all  accompanied  her  to 
the  Austrian  frontier).  A  feeling  of  veneration 
comes  over  me  when  I  think  of  this  princess- 
mother,  so  beautiful  in  spite  of  her  years,  in 
her  long  lace  and  black  dress;  she  seemed  to 
me  the  ideal  of  a  princess,  —  the  ideal  of  a  mother 
as  well,  bearing  a  distinct  resemblance  to  my 
own  whenever  she  looked  at  her  son.  .  .  . 

As  I  am  not  a  Roumanian,  and  shall  probably 
never  return  to  that  distant  castle  where  I  was 
honoured  with  so  hospitable  a  reception  that 
I  can  never  forget  it,  I  feel  absolutely  free  to 
say  how  delightful  in  every  respect  this  royal 
family  was.  I  only  wish  I  could  express  my 
meaning  in  quite  exceptional  language,  bearing  no 
resemblance  whatever  to  a  courtier's  adulation. 

In  an  open  space  some  distance  from  the 
castle  stands  a  strange-looking  hunting  lodge. 


Carmen  Sylva  21 

of  ancient  Gothic  architecture,  filled  with  bear- 
skins, aurochs'  horns,  and  boars'  and  stags' 
heads.  Here  the  queen  has  a  very  quiet,  mys- 
terious room  for  work  and  study.  The  whole 
building  suggests  the  chalet  of  the  Sleeping 
Beauty,  hidden  away  amongst  the  firs  ever 
since  the  Middle  Ages. 

Here,  every  morning,  all  assembled  before 
returning  to  dress  for  lunch.  The  queen's 
"daughters"  and  maids  of  honour,  who  had 
not  joined  in  the  walk,  had  reached  the  rendez- 
vous by  another  path. 

It  was  here  that  I  first  heard  the  queen  read 
us  one  of  those  Stories  she  signs  Carmen  Sylva. 
A  religious  silence  fell  around  as  soon  as  the 
music  of  her  voice  began  to  be  heard. 

It  was  a  heart-rending  Kttle  tale,  written  with 
rare  dramatic  power,  and  I  still  remember 
how  I  thrilled  with  emotion  as  I  sat  Hsten- 
ing.  .  .  . 

However,  this  is  not  the  place  to  speak  of 
her  talent  as  a  writer.  I  do  not  even  wish  to 
enter  into  the  subject,  however  slightly,  for  to 
do  this  adequately  would  be  a  lengthy  and  seri- 


22  Carmen  Sylva 

ous  task;  I  only  mentioned  it  for  the  purpose 
of  relating  a  trifling  anecdote  which  has  remained 
in  my  memory. 

Before  beginning,  the  queen  wished  to  take 
up  her  lorgnon,  which  was  fastened  to  her  bodice 
by  one  of  those  enormous  diamond  clasps  such 
as  queens  alone  appear  to  possess.  Her  "daugh- 
ters," seated  around,  protested:  "No!  It 
does  not  become  Your  Majesty.  It's  too  bad 
to  think  that  we  cannot  see  Your  Majesty's 
eyes  ! "  One  of  them,  evidently  the  enfant  gate 
for  the  time  being,  made  a  formal  resistance,  and 
the  queen  gave  way,  with  a  smile. 

But  after  a  few  pages,  as  the  writing  appeared 
indistinct  or  her  eyes  became  somewhat  clouded, 
she  addressed  the  girl  with  a  beseeching  smile, 
saying  in  suppliant  tones:  ''Come,  please  .  .  . 
reading  aloud  makes  me  so  tired  !  .  .  ." 

Just  this  short  sentence,  uttered  in  such  a 
tone  of  voice  by  a  queen,  appeared  to  me  some- 
thing altogether  exquisite. 

The  lofty  firs  surrounding  us  cast  a  kind  of 
bluish  semi-darkness  over  the  pointed  wood- 
carvings  of  the  room  in  which  we  were  sitting. 


Carmen  Sylva  23 

The  splash  of  water  was  heard  mingling  with 
the  queen's  voice ;  it  came  from  a  stream  ruiming 
down  from  the  heights  and  passing  close  to  the 
hunting  lodge. 

I  was  suflQciently  close  to  Her  Majesty  to  see 
the  words  of  the  book  as  she  turned  over  the 
pages,  and  great  was  my  surprise  to  discover 
that  what  she  was  reading  in  French  was  written 
in  German.  It  would  have  been  impossible 
to  guess  it,  for  there  was  not  the  shghtest  hesi- 
tation in  her  charming  diction ;  even  the  phrases 
she  improvised  were  always  harmonious. 

Only  once  did  she  pause  for  a  word  which 
did  not  come  to  her  mind,  —  the  name  of  a 
plant  whose  equivalent  in  French  she  had  for- 
gotten. "Oh!  .  .  ."  she  exclaimed,  looking  up 
to  the  ceiling,  —  and  then  she  began  a  little 
impatient  tapping  of  the  foot,  endeavouring 
to  think  of  the  word.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  she 
shook  the  arm  of  the  girl  seated  by  her  side, 
with  the  remark:  "Come,  now,  what  are  you 
doing  to  help  me  to  find  the  word  .  .  .  you 
little  log!" 

Her  charming  voice  and  manner  transformed 


24  Carmen  Sylva 

this  familiar  phrase  —  which,  coming  from  the 
lips  of  another,  would  have  seemed  trivial  and 
commonplace  —  into  something  delightful,  some- 
thing distinguished,  so  unexpected  and  droll 
that  we  burst  out  laughing.  ,  .  .  All  the  same, 
it  happened  just  at  a  point  where  she  was 
reading  something  that  brought  tears  to  our 
eyes  as  we  listened  in  perfect  silence.  Carmen 
Sylva,  reading  her  own  works,  is  the  only  person 
who  ever  stirred  me,  with  fiction,  to  the  point 
of  making  me  weep ;  perhaps  this  is  the  strong- 
est praise  of  her  talent  that  I  can  give,  for  even 
at  the  theatre,  where  men  are  so  frequently 
moved  to  tears,  I  am  never  affected  in  the  slight- 
est degree. 

On  another  occasion  I  heard  her  perform  the 
same  wonderful  feat  in  translating  from  the 
Roumanian.  She  was  reading  aloud  an  old 
mountain  ballad,  transposing  it  right  off  into 
rhythmical,  poetical  French.  It  would  appear 
as  though  it  were  a  matter  of  indifference  to 
her  which  language  she  used  as  the  vehicle  of 
her  thoughts.  In  this  respect  she  resembles 
those  accomplished  musicians  who  play  a  piece 


Carmen  Sylva  25 

of  music  in  any  key  with  like  facility  and  in- 
tensity of  feeling.  .  .  . 

Now  that  I  have  come  to  the  end  of  these 
few  notes,  I  have  the  impression  of  having  said 
nothing  of  what  I  wished  to  say.  It  was  my 
intention  to  speak  of  Her  Majesty,  Queen  Eliz- 
abeth of  Roumania,  whereas  I  have  merely 
touched  the  fringe  of  my  subject.  I  have  de- 
scribed the  frame  rather  than  the  portrait,  and 
that  but  lightly  by  reason  of  my  excessive  re- 
spect and  reverence  and  from  fear  that  I  might 
not  make  it  sufficiently  life-like  and  beautiful. 

I  hope  Her  Majesty  will  not  be  angry  with 
me  for  attempting  to  sketch  her  shadow,  should 
these  pages  chance  to  come  to  her  notice.  All 
the  same,  that  sentence  in  her  Thoughts,  which 
one  might  regard  as  her  own  description  or  paint- 
ing of  herself,  startles  me  somewhat :  Some 
women  are  majestically  pure,  like  swans.  Of  end 
them  and  you  will  see  their  plumes  bristle  up  for 
one  brief  moment,  then  they  tu^n  away  in  silence 
and  take  refuge  in  the  bosom  of  the  waters. 


THE  EXILE 


THE  EXILE 


Bucharest,  April,  1890. 


HIS  morning,  as  I  entered  the 
queen's  rooms,  I  was  surprised  at 
seeing  an  unwonted  profusion  of 
flowers;  the  salons  were  full  of 
roses,  like  the  sanctuaries  of  Indian  idols  on 
special  days  of  worship.  There  were  bouquets 
on  every  seat,  on  the  gilt  forms,  the  Oriental 
cushions  and  the  dainty,  artistic  tables;  others 
were  in  flower-stands  made  of  reeds,  suspended 
by  ribbons  of  the  national  colours;  other  buds, 
of  a  golden  yellow  tint,  were  arranged  so  as  to 
imitate  the  royal  crowns. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  salon,  on  a  slightly  raised 
kind  of  platform,  sat  the  queen,  who  was  once 
more  being  feted.  She  was  dressed  in  white, 
as  usual;  her  white  hair  surrounding  her  still 
youthful  countenance,  which  was  Ut  up  with 
29 


30  The  Exile 

a  smile  indicative  of  the  most  exquisite  kindness 
of  heart.  Two  maids  of  honour,  sitting  at  her 
feet,  were  tearing  open  and  reading  telegrams 
of  congratulations,  with  which  a  sUver  tray 
was  filled.  .  .  . 

"...  Signed  Humber  First,"  one  was  just 
saying. 

Another  began:  "This,  madame,  is  from  the 
Queen  of  Sweden,  who  wishes  Your  Ma- 
jesty ..." 

As  I  entered,  the  queen  smilingly  raised  her 
head,  and,  in  tones  of  ineffable  melancholy, 
gave  me  the  explanation  she  evidently  saw  I 
was  expecting : 

"This  is  my  fete  day  .  .  .  but  of  course  you 
knew  nothing  of  it.  I  ordered  these  little  maid- 
ens not  to  tell  you ;  for  I  receive  quite  sufficient 
flowers,  mon  Dieu  ..." 

The  unfinished  sentence  clearly  indicated 
that  the  queen  was  not  deceived  by  such  a 
profusion  of  roses. 

One  of  the  two  maids  of  honour  seated  by 
her  side  on  this  occasion  was  destined  soon  to 
return  to  a  Hfe  of  obscurity;    the  other  was 


The  Exile  31 

Mademoiselle  Helene  .  .  .  who,  at  a  later  date, 
had  the  misfortune  to  see  her  name  in  all 
the  journals  of  Europe,  in  connection  with  her 
short-lived  betrothal  to  the  heir  to  the  throne. 
She  was  quite  small  and  would  scarcely  have 
been  noticed  at  a  first  glance,  though  she  soon 
attracted  attention  by  the  charm  of  her  intel- 
lect. She  was  gay  and  childHke  on  the  surface, 
but  possessed  of  a  soul  that  was  not  easy  to 
fathom ;  somewhat  intoxicated  with  her  literary 
success  and  rapid  rise;  ambitious,  perhaps, 
though  with  every  excuse  for  it,  and,  at  all 
events,  capable  of  spontaneous  outbursts  of 
affection  and  love,  especially  for  such  as  did 
not  oppose  her.  The  queen,  at  first  attracted 
by  the  rare  intelligence  of  Mademoiselle  Helene 
.  .  . ,  had  gradually  come  under  the  sway  of 
her  poetic  talent.  Herself  a  childless  mother,  in 
perpetual  mourning  for  her  own  daughter,  she 
came  to  lavish  a  truly  maternal  affection  on  this 
adopted  child,  who  was  so  marvellously  gifted. 

In  honour  of  the  queen's  fete,  —  the  last  one 
she    received    from    her    own    people,  —  there 


32  The  Exile 

was  a  private  reception  in  the  palace  that 
afternoon. 

About  two  o'clock  there  began  to  arrive  all 
the  maids  of  honour  whom  the  queen  called 
her  "daughters."  She  received  them  in  a 
large  salon  containing  a  church  organ,  which 
rose  to  the  dim-looking  ceiling.  They  entered 
in  small  groups  from  the  conservatory;  and 
it  was  a  dream  of  dehght  to  see  them  wearing 
embroidered  robes  all  spangled  with  gold,  for, 
on  this  occasion,  the  queen  had  bid  them  wear 
the  old  national  costume,  and  was  herself  dressed 
in  a  severe-looking  cloth-of-silver  gown,  and  the 
long,  old-fashioned  veil. 

Amongst  the  new-comers,  I  saw  many  whose 
acquaintance  I  had  made  three  years  previously 
at  the  fairy  castle  of  Sinaia,  and  with  them  I 
exchanged  a  few  pleasant  words  of  greeting. 

All  these  giddy,  elegant  creatures,  however, 
infatuated  with  the  fashion  of  the  day,  these 
pretty,  dark  eyes,  with  their  searching,  treach- 
erous glances,  were  more  than  ever  out  of 
harmony  with  bygone  customs.  Besides,  even 
then  there  was  an  element  of  ingratitude,  of 


The  Exile  33 

hatred  and  cruelty,  in  the  courtesies,  the  hand- 
kissing,  and  the  smiles  they  gave  the  queen.  .  .  . 
Oh  !  It  was  not  so  in  the  case  of  all,  certainly; 
some  were  loyal  and  faithful,  grateful  and  warm- 
hearted, quite  different  from  the  rest.  But  the 
majority,  suddenly  seen  under  unexpected  cir- 
cumstances, sent  a  cold  shiver  through  my  whole 
frame.  .  .  . 

And  what  a  change  had  come  over  the  queen 
in  these  three  years  !  So  youthful  in  appearance 
then;  and  now,  overwhelmed  by  a  loss  that 
could  never  be  forgotten,  some  great  deception, 
perhaps ;  thin  and  aged,  with  the  light  all  gone 
from  her  smile ! 

Tzigane  musicians  (Laotaris)  followed ;  these 
were  hidden  away  in  the  conservatory.  Be- 
neath the  artificially  sun-lit  palm-leaves,  which, 
seen  from  the  dim  salons,  bore  a  striking  sem- 
blance to  an  Oriental  garden,  only  their  auburn 
locks  could  be  seen,  like  so  many  coolies  in  an 
Indian  jungle,  hiding  away  in  ambush;  whilst 
the  sad,  fevered  strains  of  their  music  fell  faintly 
on  our  ears. 


34  The  Exile 

Then  all  these  dangerous  little  gold-spangled 
dolls  formed  themselves  into  one  long  chain, 
delightful  to  behold,  and,  following  the  fashion 
of  the  day,  began  an  old  but  popular  country 
dance,  called  the  "hora." 

They  entreated  the  queen  to  join  them,  which 
she  was  quite  wilHng  to  do  with  her  never  fail- 
ing good  grace  and  a  perpetual  sad  smile  on  her 
brow.  The  chain  had  now  formed  itself  into 
a  circle,  and  she  advanced  to  the  centre,  taller 
than  any  of  her  "daughters,"  and  dressed  all 
in  white,  wearing  her  silver  cloth  gown  and 
muslin  veil,  amid  the  many-coloured  embroid- 
eries and  the  spangles  of  the  rest.  She  resembled 
a  sedate,  gentle  figure  from  some  Byzantine 
fresco,  for  she  had  for  the  first  time  put  on, 
beneath  her  white  veU,  an  old-fashioned  head- 
band, which  came  very  low  down  over  the 
brow:  "You  see,"  she  had  said  to  her  maids 
of  honour  that  very  morning,  "at  my  age,  I 
cannot  continue  to  do  without  an  old  woman's 
head-band,  in  Roumania,  can  I?"  Nor  had 
any  attempt  been  made  to  dissuade  her,  so  well 
did  it  become  her.  .  .  .     With  a  charm  and  art 


The  Exile  35 

that  none  of  her  "daughters"  could  equal,  she 
danced  the  slow,  solemn  dance,  which  resembled 
a  kind  of  ritual. 

Then  they  requested  her  to  sing;  and,  bent 
on  pleasing  them,  she  sang  an  old  German  lied 
which  she  asked  me  to  accompany  on  the  or- 
gan. All  the  anguish  of  her  soul  passed  into 
her  voice,  and  when  it  was  over,  I  thought  I 
noticed  more  than  one  pair  of  pretty,  wicked, 
eyes  brimming  with  tears.  .  .  . 

That  evening  it  was  my  lot  to  take  my  seat 
at  the  small  royal  table  for  the  last  time.  We 
were  in  the  centre  of  the  private  suite  of  rooms, 
in  a  lofty  circular  dining-room  of  red  marble, 
with  black  marble  panellings,  adorned  with 
the  paintings  of  old  masters.  Quite  a  simple 
dinner,  on  a  round  table  just  large  enough  for 
the  six  persons  seated  there :  the  king  and  queen, 
the  prince  royal,  two  maids  of  honour  and  the 
guest  whom  Their  Majesties  had  graciously 
invited.  But  for  the  austere  splendour  of  the 
place  and  the  number  of  servants  in  Court 
livery,  all  silent  and  attentive,  it  would  have 


36  The  Exile 

been  the  most  intimate  family  meal  imagi- 
nable. 

During  dinner  the  king  always  showed  him- 
self in  the  most  affable  and  charming  light, 
there  being  no  trace  of  his  usual  grave,  imposing 
expression,  beyond  a  deep  wrinkle  between 
his  dark  eyebrows.  "No  one  who  sees  that 
deep  Hne  on  the  king's  brow,"  the  queen  said 
to  me  one  day  in  accents  of  tender  reverence, 
"would  ever  suspect  how  much  labour  and 
thought,  struggle  and  suffering,  have  gone  to 
create  it." 

But  neither  the  benevolent  simplicity  of  the 
sovereigns,  the  youthful  faces  of  the  prince  royal 
and  the  maids  of  honour,  nor  even  their  quiet 
laughter  and  chatter,  could  dispel  a  feehng  of 
sadness,  which  seemed  to  descend  from  the 
lofty  ceiling  above. 

The  red  marble  rotunda  looked  down  upon 
high  dimly-Ht  rooms,  the  magnificence  of  which 
bore  the  impress  of  the  king's  austere,  refined 
tastes.  These  rooms  included  the  Hbrary,  at 
the  farther  end  of  which  was'  lit  the  historic 
lantern  of  the  gondola  of  the  old  doges  of  Venice. 


The  Exile  37 

The  two  maidens,  rendered  nervous  by  the 
somewhat  sequestered  life  of  the  palace,  cast 
startled  glances  from  time  to  time  about  them, 
as  though  in  vague  dread  of  beholding  some 
phantom  or  apparition  of  the  past. 

What  was  the  cause  of  all  this?  Perhaps 
the  isolation  of  the  life  without;  perhaps  that 
empty,  magnificent  open  space,  guarded  by 
sentinels,  and  that  dead  silence  in  the  midst  of 
one  of  the  noisiest  cities  in  the  world,  where 
the  rumbling  of  carriages  and  conveyances  is 
most  restless  and  intermittent.  .  .  .  Indeed, 
one  was  conscious  of  something  unusual  in  the 
air,  something  never  felt  at  a  great  Court 
dinner,  all  blazing  with  light,  and  which  might 
be  said  to  suggest  palaces  and  the  oppressive 
burden  of  royalty. 

By  the  side  of  the  heir  presumptive,  every 
evening,  at  the  small  family  table,  sat  Made- 
moiselle Helene.  .  .  .  Doubtless  this  continual 
association  had  already  given  birth  to  feelings 
that  might  easily  have  been  foreseen.  It  was 
the   most  natural   thing  in   the  world   that  a 


38  The  Exile 

prince  of  twenty-four,  kept  strictly  away  from 
the  pleasures  of  his  age,  living  a  life  of  intel- 
lectual labour  and  military  manoeuvres,  should 
fall  in  love  with  a  bright,  extremely  intelligent 
girl,  the  only  one,  moreover,  whom  he  was  per- 
mitted to  see  at  all  intimately.  The  romance 
here  outlined,  which  a  certain  section  of  the 
press  did  its  best  to  mar  and  spoil,  was  thus 
essentially  honourable  and  straightforward.  And 
the  idea  of  marriage,  however  opposed  to  es- 
tabhshed  rules,  became  the  only  one  capable 
of  offering  itself  to  a  youth,  brought  up  as  was 
the  prince  royal  in  quite  a  puritan  atmosphere 
and  having  the  most  worthy  examples  about 
him  to  follow;  Mademoiselle  Helene,  .  .  . 
whose  keen  intellect,  moreover,  was  by  no 
means  calculated  to  excite  the  seductions  of  a 
fleeting  love,  but  far  rather  to  hold  and  retain 
true  affection. 

The  following  evening  I  was  to  start  for  Con- 
stantinople, and  I  well  remember  my  distress 
at  taking  leave  of  the  queen  in  this  palace  to 
which  I  had  so  strong  a  foreboding  that  I  should 
never  return. 


The  Exile  39 

I  was  ignorant  as  to  where  lay  the  danger, 
or  from  what  direction  the  ill  wind  would  begin 
to  blow,  but  the  impression  left  upon  me  by 
that  last  day,  and  by  th.^  fete,  was  a  dull  inward 
chill.  As  I  watched  the  yoimg  guests,  on  taking 
leave,  kiss  the  beautiful  hand  of  the  queen,  I 
caught  premonitions  of  hatred  and  hardness  of 
heart  in  those  who  bowed  most  devoutly,  and 
in  the  sovereign  who -smiled  upon  them  I  divined 
a  new-born  clairvoyance,  an  indulgent  though 
boundless  mistrust. 

n 

A  year  later,  the  queen,  seriously  ill,  was  taken 
first  to  the  south  of  Italy  and  afterwards  to 
Venice.  It  was  alleged  that  she  needed  the 
milder  sea  air  and  the  constantly  moist  atmos- 
phere of  the  lagoons. 

In  reaHty,  it  was  the  beginning  of  her  exile. 

And  there,  in  Venice,  I  was  permitted  to  come 
and  see  her,  though  for  the  last  time.  .  .  . 


40  The  Exile 

m 

Venice,  Friday,  14th  August,  1891. 

It  is  an  August  morning,  at  daybreak.  Sum- 
moned by  Her  Majesty,  I  arrive  from  Nice  for 
two  brief  days,  all  the  leave  of  absence  from 
the  squadron  that  I  am  allowed. 

We  are  just  beginning  to  see  distinctly  when 
I  descend  from  the  Genoa  express  at  the  station 
of  Venice,  which  resembles  a  tiny  island.  Every- 
thing is  still  indistinct  in  that  hazy  semiobscur- 
ity  before  the  sun  appears,  a  kind  of  luminous 
mist,  of  a  grey-linen  hue,  peculiar  to  the  last 
few  mornings  of  summer. 

At  the  station  harbour,  I  enter  one  of  the 
dark-looking  gondolas  shut  in  like  a  floating 
sarcophagus,  which  ply  for  hire  in  Venice  as 
cabs  do  in  other  cities. 

We  start  off,  gHding  over  the  still  waters  of 
the  streets,  immediately  finding  ourselves,  after 
a  few  windings,  in  a  maze  of  old  surroundings, 
between  black-looking,  ancient  houses,  full  of 
cracks,  and  stiU  plunged  in  the  slumber  of  past 
ages.     The  silence  of  these  watery  streets  calls 


The  Exile  ■  41 

to  mind  some  gloomy  town  of  Ys,  drowned  and 
submerged  in  the  long-distant  past,  but  which 
the  sea  would  appear  now  to  have  forsaken. 

Then  a  sudden  turn,  and  we  come  out  into 
open  air  and  space.  The  light  of  dawn  reap- 
pears and  we  have  before  us  the  magic  splendour 
of  the  Grand  Canal  before  it  awakens  to  life, 
lying  there  absolutely  motionless,  of  a  uniform 
pearl-grey  hue,  with  the  pink  dawn  appearing, 
here  and  there,  above  the  tops  of  its  palaces.  .  .  . 

Still,  on  the  present  occasion,  I  scarcely  look 
at  this  marvellous  Venice;  the  only  value  it 
has  to  me  now  is  that  of  being  a  charming 
accessory,  a  somewhat  ideal  background  or 
frame  to  the  sweetly  sad  figure  of  the  queen, 
the  fairy  I  have  come  to  visit. 

Another  turn  and  we  are  once  more  in  semi- 
darkness.  For  the  second  time  we  make  our  way 
into  the  narrow  streets,  between  the  old,  black- 
looking  buildings  which  rise  above  the  dismal 
waters.  There  is  still  slumber  all  around, 
and  the  silence  of  the  early  morn.  When, 
perchance,  some  distance  away,  as  we  approach 
a  dark  crossing,  the  regular  splash  of  oars  is 


42  The  Exile 

heard,  my  gondolier  raises  a  prolonged  warning 
call  which  goes  echoing  between  the  damp  marble 
walls,  —  these  deserted  streets  are  as  sonorous 
as  a  vault,  —  someone  yet  in\dsible  responds, 
and  soon  there  appears  another  gondola,  as 
black  and  shut  in  as  mine,  and  the  two  sarcophagi 
glide  past  each  other  in  perfect  order.  .  .  . 

With  my  thoughts  farther  and  farther  away 
as  I  draw  near  my  destination,  I  follow  neither 
the  route  nor  the  direction  taken,  I  have  even 
ceased  looking.  .  .  .  And  now  we  are  about 
to  pass  beneath  that  "Bridge  of  Sighs,"  whose 
name  is  as  antiquated  as  an  old  romance,  but 
which  still  leaves  anything  but  a  faint  impression, 
when  seen  appearing  in  view  so  unexpectedly. 
.  .  .  Then  we  emerge  from  the  darkness  into 
wide-stretching,  luminous,  pink-tinted  space, 
and  suddenly  we  find  ourselves  in  the  Great 
Lagoon,  with  all  the  glory  and  splendour  of 
Venice  before  us :  close  by  stands  the  palace 
of  the  Doges  and  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark;  away 
on  the  other  bank,  situated  in  the  midst  of  sun- 
lit waters,  like  some  fairy  isle,  stands  St.  George 
the  Greater,  its  dome  and  campanile  ablaze 


The  Exile  43 

with  light.  All  this  is  a  classic,  an  eternal 
marvel,  known  to  all,  for  it  has  been  painted 
again  and  again,  but  so  glorious  is  the  summer 
dawn,  that  I  do  not  think  any  artist  has  ever 
had  the  courage  to  use  such  vivid  tints  of  pink, 
red,  and  orange  for  the  hght  and  such  iris  violet 
for  the  shade. 

And  now  we  reach  the  hotel  Danieli,  where 
the  queen  is  staying. 

This  hotel  Danieli,  where  in  former  times  the 
RepubUc  of  St.  Mark  received  its  ambassadors, 
is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  Gothic  palaces  in 
Venice.  It  stands  close  to  that  of  the  Doges, 
and  is  in  the  same  line  with  it.  The  interior 
still  retains  its  marble  staircases,  its  mosaic 
floors,  and  magnificent  ceiUngs  in  two  or  three 
of  the  rooms.  In  these  democratic  times,  how- 
ever, it  has  become  a  vulgar,  an  ordinary  hotel, 
at  which  anyone  may  put  up. 

The  whole  of  the  first  floor,  containing  the 
large  halls  and  the  State  salons  of  old,  had  been 
reserved  for  the  queen  and  such  few  members 
of  her  suite  as  still  accompanied  her. 

The  friendly  faces  that  welcomed  my  arrival 


44  The  ExUe 

have  a  sad,  disquieting  expression  which  I 
never  saw  at  Bucharest :  the  queen's  secretary, 
her  doctor,  a  maid  of  honour.  Mademoiselle 
Catherine.  .  .  .  Ah  !  She,  at  all  events,  was 
sincere  and  faithful !  .  .  .  May  I  be  pardoned 
for  mentioning  her,  and  acknowledge,  in  pass- 
ing, her  discreet  and  steadfast  devotion  to  her 
sovereign. 

About  ten  o'clock  I  am  informed  that  the 
queen  can  receive  me.  The  room  to  which  I 
am  conducted  is  guarded  by  loyal  old  servants 
whom  I  remember  having  frequently  seen  at 
Bucharest. 

Right  at  the  end  of  the  large  salon,  the  doors 
of  which  are  surmounted  with  royal  crowns 
and  from  whose  stUl  splendid  ceiling  hang  huge 
Venetian  glass  chandeliers,  recHning  in  an  arm- 
chair, I  saw  the  queen,  dressed  in  white,  and 
with  a  gracious  smile  of  welcome  on  her  face. 
.  .  .  But  how  that  face  had  changed,  how  thin 
it  was  !  .  .  .  She  seems  to  have  aged  ten  years 
since  last  spring. 

"She  is  so  ill,"  Mademoiselle  Catherine  had 


The  Exile  45 

said  to  me  that  very  morning.  "Besides,  she 
cannot  walk  any  more;  we  have  to  carry  her 
or  roll  her  in  the  arm-chair ;  her  graceful  bear- 
ing and  queenly  gait  have  vanished." 

Seated  on  a  stool  at  her  feet,  like  a  little 
coaxing  child,  is  Mademoiselle  Helene  .  .  . , 
dressed  very  simply  in  pink,  nothing  escaping 
her  dark,  inquisitive  glance.  In  her  attitude 
there  is  a  something  affected,  as  though  she 
were  playing  at  being  the  spoiled  child  of  this 
adorable  mother;  besides,  I  noticed  that 
whenever  no  one  was  watching,  or  she  was 
practically  alone  with  the  queen,  her  attitude 
towards  the  latter  was  invariably  of  a  colder 
and  more  reserved  nature.  I  do  not  mention 
this  as  a  reproach :  so  few  women  are  capable 
of  appearing  just  as  they  really  are,  without  a 
more  or  less  affected  pose,  or  even  unconsciously 
calculating  the  effect  they  are  producing.  More- 
over, I  have  not  the  faintest  doubt  but  that  she 
had  a  sincere  feeling  of  attachment  for  this 
adopted  mother  of  hers,  and  that  she  shed 
genuine  tears  when  bidding  her  a  last  farewell. 

Around  the  queen  is  the  little  group  of  eight 


46  The  Exile 

or  ten,  —  faithful  to  a  certain  extent,  —  who 
have  been  with  her  since  leaving  Bucharest, 
and  now  constitute  her  Court  in  Venice.  Con- 
versation is  ahnost  gay,  but  complete  confidence 
seems  lacking.  With  a  laugh,  the  qufeen  utters 
the  following  sentence,  which  indeed  is  not  far 
from  the  truth,  "We  are  the  exiles  of  Venice, 
you  know."  She  continues,  more  sadly,  "And 
some  allege  that  we  are  even  a  little  group  of 
malefactors  against  Europe.  ..." 

Here  I  must  briefly  state  what,  at  this  date, 
was  the  position  of  Mademoiselle  Helene  at 
the  Court  of  Roumania.  The  simple  maid  of 
honour  I  had  formerly  known  was  now  be- 
trothed to  the  prince  royal.  True,  Parliament 
had  never  given  its  consent  to  the  marriage, 
and  the  king  had  just  withdrawn  his  consent. 
Still,  there  was  no  rupture,  for  the  prince  royal, 
recalled  by  his  family  to  Germany  to  Uve  in 
strict  seclusion  within  his  hereditary  castle, 
had  given  back  to  Mademoiselle  Helene  neither 
her  promise,  letters,  nor  engagement  ring.  The 
queen,  who  was  so  anxious  to  bring  about  the 


The  Exile  47 

marriage  of  these  two  adopted  children,  and 
who,  through  urging  forward  this  mesalliance, 
had  drawn  upon  herself  the  disfavour  of  the 
nation,  had  not  yet  lost  all  hope.  The  entire 
press  of  Europe  published  malevolent  com- 
ments on  the  strange  situation.  And  Made- 
moiselle Helene,  .  .  .  after  visions  of  the  throne 
and  a  four  months'  sojourn  in  this  enchanted 
dreamland,  was  beginning  to  feel  that  every- 
thing was  crimibling  to  the  ground,  as  when 
one  awakes.  .  .  . 

This  was  the  first  time  the  queen  had  appeared 
before  me,  apart  from  her  special  environment, 
or  setting,  so  to  speak,  I  mean,  away  from  her 
palaces  in  Bucharest  and  Sinaia,  in  which  the 
maxim  of  elegance  defined,  I  think,  by  E.  de 
Goncourt  finds  such  justification:  "A  person's 
good  taste  may  be  judged  by  the  good  taste  of 
the  things  around  him." 

Here,  doubtless  from  a  feeling  of  intense 
lassitude,  the  great  stately  salon,  which  might 
have  been  so  beautiful  to  behold,  had  been 
left  just  as  it  was,  with  its  lodging-house  orna- 


48  The  Exile 

ments  of  the  most  atrocious  taste,  modern  gilt 
bronzes  beneath  globes,  and  —  a  detail  quite 
unexpected  —  the  vulgarly  rich  arm-chair  in 
which  Her  Majesty  sat  languidly,  was  covered 
with  a  small  white  crocheted  veil. 

The  work-table  alone  revealed  the  queen's 
presence,  for  it  was  spread  with  writing-pads 
and  a  number  of  precious  writing  utensils 
stamped  with  her  initials  and  crown. 

As  soon  as  each  sheet  was  finished,  it  was 
torn  off.  Poems  and  spontaneous  thoughts, 
novels  and  dramas,  were  conceived  and  feverishly 
transferred  to  paper,  in  the  exhausting  effort 
to  lay  hold,  as  rapidly  as  possible,  of  all  those  un- 
expressed ideas  to  which  her  fertile  imagination 
gave  birth.  This  work  was  of  unequal  merit; 
some  was  of  sublime  grandeur,  some  again  in- 
complete, thrust  aside,  as  it  were,  by  the  bud- 
ding germ  of  the  work  following.  She  did  not 
take  sufficient  pains  with  her  writings,  —  it 
being  the  queen's  opinion  that,  in  the  matter 
of  literature,  everything  ought  to  be  spontaneous, 
written  in  obedience  to  the  initial  impulse  and 
then  left  as  it  is,  without  there  being  any  neces- 


The  Exile  49 

sity  to  perform  the  indispensable  task  of  con- 
densing one's  own  thoughts  ever  more  and  more, 
and  thus  making  them  as  clear  and  intelligible 
as  possible  to  the  reader.  The  extensive  literary 
output  of  Carmen  Sylva,  very  little  of  which 
has  appeared  in  French,  —  most  of  it  being 
destined  to  be  forever  lost  or  unpubHshed,  — 
would  have  needed  passing  through  the  hands 
of  someone  capable  of  priming  and  curtailing 
it,  and  that  conscientiously;  after  such  treat- 
ment, this  work  of  genius  would  have  attained 
to  the  place  it  merits  in  pubHc  esteem.  .  .  . 
Oh  !  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  queen's  writ- 
ings are  not  charming,  just  as  they  stand;  she 
soars  aloft  in  a  manner  unattainable  by  so  many 
clever  writers  of  books ;  and  even  at  her  weak- 
est, one  is  ever  conscious  of  the  presence  of  a 
great  and  noble  soul,  throbbing  with  pity  for 
human  woes,  —  and  that  is  sufficient  for  those 
who  are  sensitive,  for  those  who  mourn,  — 
though  it  may  not  be  for  the  crowd  of  official 
scribblers.  One  even  wonders  how  it  has  come 
about  that  this  woman,  born  a  princess  and 
crowned  a  queen  twenty  years  ago,  can  thus 


50  The  Exile 

have  sounded  all  the  depths  of  human  sorrow, 
and  thoroughly  sympathised  with  the  distress 
of  the  poor  and  the  down-trodden. 

And  how  motherly  you  feel  her  to  be  in  all 
circumstances,  how  conscious  you  are  that  her 
heart  must  often  have  been  torn  with  the  grief 
and  the  infinite  tenderness  of  a  Mater  Dolo- 
rosa I 

You  are  also  aware  that  she  is  indulgent 
towards  all  sins  and  faiUngs,  with  the  serene  in- 
dulgence of  a  spotless  soul ;  free  from  the  prudery 
of  the  impure  and  looking  upon  everything 
with  rare  breadth  of  vision  and  the  spirit  of 
forgiveness.  This,  indeed,  it  is  that  in  certain 
narrow-minded,  pharisaical  sects  in  Germany 
raised  up  against  her  bitter  and  implacable  ene- 
mies, even  amongst  those  who  ought  to  have 
cherished  her  name  and  upheld  her  cause. 

I  think  the  very  illness  that  keeps  her  con- 
fined to  this  arm-chair  is  the  result  not  so  much 
of  grief  and  trouble,  as  of  a  state  of  intellectual 
overwork,  of  that  fevered  condition  in  which 
one  feels  that  the  pen  runs  too  slowly  to  express 
the  thought.     I  remember  how  she  spent  her 


The  Exile  51 

time  at  Bucharest  and  Sinaia ;  from  my  room  in 
the  palace  I  saw  her  lamp  burning  every  night 
at  the  window  of  a  distant  tower.  It  was  lit 
between  three  and  four  in  the  morning,  and 
there,  in  peace  and  silence,  she  would  work 
alone  until  the  usual  morning  occupations  be- 
gan, or  her  "daughters"  came  in  a  group  to 
bid  her  a  pleasant  good  morning;  then,  with- 
out apparent  fatigue,  until  eleven  at  night, 
she  went  through  her  daily  round  of  duties,  a 
perpetual  smile  and  a  look  of  never  faihng 
charity  in  her  face. 

On  the  table  of  the  salon,  my  eyes  involim- 
tarily  fall  on  a  manuscript,  whereupon  the  queen 
says  in  that  musical  voice  of  hers,  with  its  de- 
Hghtfully  foreign  modulations : 

"That  is  my  new  book,  at  which  I  am  work- 
ing so  hard  !  Do  you  know,  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
not  finish  it  and  that  it  can  never  be  published. 
I  intend  to  call  it  The  Book  of  the  Soul,  and  will 
read  you  a  few  passages  if  you  wish." 

"Oh!  Not  here,"  she  continued,  on  my 
eager  acceptance  of  this  gracious  offer.     "This 


52  The  Exile 

afternoon,  in  the  gondola.  You  see,  I  spend 
my  days  on  the  water;  that  forms  part  of  the 
treatment  of  a  poor  patient.  To  keep  me  com- 
pany, you  will  be  forced  to  do  the  same  and 
live  on  the  lagoons  all  the  time  you  stay  in 
Venice." 

The  Book  of  the  Soul!  On  the  queen's  table, 
I  looked  at  the  unfinished  manuscript,  divining 
from  the  title  alone  what  it  must  be :  a  kind  of 
swan  song,  a  masterpiece  of  grief,  destined  to 
be  heard  only  by  a  few  intimate  friends,  and 
whose  very  pages  have  perhaps  now  been  de- 
stroyed. .  .  . 

With  a  smile  of  resignation  and  in  gentle 
tones  that  seemed  to  extend  forgiveness  to  all 
her  enemies,  the  queen  added : 

"All  the  same,  I  must  warn  you  to  be  on  your 
guard :  this  is  the  work  of  one  who  is  insane ! 
My  head,  it  appears  ..." 

With  her  beautiful,  though  almost  transpar- 
ently thin,  hand  she  described  two  or  three 
circles  in  the  air  to  indicate  —  she  was  now 
laughing  heartily — that  she  was  accused  of 
being  very  Ught-headed.  .  .  . 


The  Exile  53 

Indeed,  an  entire  party  was  at  that  time  trying 
to  insinuate  that  Her  Majesty  had  lost  her 
reason.  This  was  repeated  throughout  Europe, 
in  more  or  less  corrupt  journals.  It  was  even 
one  of  the  least  harmftd  things  then  being 
retailed  by  one  section  of  the  press,  against  a 
sovereign  who  was  to  be  crushed  and  ruined  at 
whatever  cost. 

Soon  afterwards  luncheon  was  annoimced, 
and  then  I  witnessed  something  of  a  painful 
nature,  though  now  it  happened  daily:  two 
men-servants,  whose  special  duty  it  was,  pre- 
sented themselves  for  the  purpose  of  removing 
the  queen  in  her  arm-chair,  for  she  was  unable 
to  walk. 

"Oh  !  Thanks  !  Just  wait  a  moment,  please, 
will  you?"  she  said,  so  gently  and  politely  that 
I  immediately  called  to  mind  that  sentence 
from  her  Thoughts:  A  true  lady  has  the  same 
manners  with  her  servants  as  with  her  guests. 
...  "I  feel  a  Httle  better  this  morning,  so 
I  will  try  to  go  alone." 

Very  slowly  at  first,  she  rose  to  her  feet,  tall 


54  The  Exile 

and  upright,  a  thing  she  had  not  done  for  months, 
and  looked  round  upon  us  all  with  a  charming 
smile,  as  though  to  say : 

"You  see  I  was  right ;  I  feel  much  better." 
Thereupon   she   deliberately   started   ofif   for 
the  dining-room,  the  rest  of   us,  in   utter  sur- 
prise, following  in  her  train. 

Glancing  at  Mademoiselle  Catherine  .  .  . 
walking  by  my  side,  I  remember  the  joyful 
expression,  so  full  of  afifectionate  hope,  which 
came  into  her  eyes. 

'  *  Look  at  the  queen, ' '  she  said.    ' '  Incredible  ! ' ' 
Our  joy  was  not  destined  to  continue,  alas ! 
After  all,  such  deceptive  changes  for  the  better 
are  characteristic  of  this  malady. 

In  the  dining-room,  the  queen  did  not  sit  at 
table.  She  lay  stretched  on  one  of  those  Empire 
couches,  the  gilt  arms  of  which  represent  swans, 
and  there  she  received,  at  the  hands  of  Made- 
moiselle Helene  .  .  .,  who  served  her  with  the 
most  respectful  attention,  a  small  quantity  of 
special  food  in  tiny  cups,  almost  such  as  a  child 
would  use  for  her  doll ! 


The  Exile  55 

IV 

As  soon  as  luncheon  was  over,  we  entered  the 
gondola  for  our  long,  aimless  sail,  a  daily  expe- 
rience, peaceful  and  soothing.  Along  the  old 
"marble  staircase,  the  same  two  servants  carried 
the  queen  in  their  clasped  hands,  forming  an  ex- 
tempore chair  on  which  she  was  transported 
right  to  the  door  of  the  hotel.  A  few  inquisi- 
tive spectators,  —  as  always  happens  when  a 
queen  passes  by,  —  including  a  dozen  tourists, 
had  collected  to  watch  the  sad  procession  and 
greet  the  queen  with  respectful  bows. 

A  dark-looking  gondola,  of  mourning  black, 
as  all  the  gondolas  of  Venice  have  remained 
ever  since  the  sumptuary  laws;  on  the  ends 
the  two  traditional  sea-horses,  of  shining  brass ; 
behind,  the  large,  dark,  black-curtained  shelter ; 
the  gondoHers,  in  a  dress  suggestive  of  the  stage, 
though  here  it  forms  an  actual  uniform  for 
the  crews  of  the  leisured  classes:  white  shirt 
and  trousers,  with  a  very  long  blue  silk  girdle 
streaming  behind. 

Without    indicating    any    special    direction, 


56  The  Exile 

the  only  order  given  them  was  to  go  slowly, 
and  we  set  forth,  wherever  their  fancy  willed. 

We  were  speedily  lost  in  an  old  quarter  of 
the  city,  silent  as  death,  beneath  the  shade  of 
closed-in,  mysterious-looking  houses,  overhang- 
ing us  from  great  heights ;  along  these  submerged 
streets  we  made  our  way  by  jerks,  noiseless  and 
scarcely  perceptible,  over  the  silent,  stagnant 
water.  The  queen,  recHning  with  sovereign 
grace  beneath  the  shade  of  the  dark  shelter,  a 
maid  of  honour  on  either  side,  looked  exquisite, 
though  it  filled  one's  mind  with  anguish  to  be- 
hold her.  Everything  except  herself,  moreover, 
seemed  but  of  secondary  importance,  nothing 
but  frame  and  accessories,  so  to  speak.  The 
foreboding  that  she  might  soon  be  taken  from 
us  made  us  concern  ourselves  with  her  alone 
and  with  the  thoughts  to  which  she  gave  utter- 
ance, or  even  her  slightest  remarks,  to  which 
the  sound  of  her  voice  added  special  charm. 
From  time  to  time  we  passed  by  some  old  Vene- 
tian palace  we  could  not  help  noticing;  or,  as 
we  wound  round  one  of  those  shaded,  watery 
streets,  there  appeared  a  wonderful  vista  in  the 


The  Exile  57 

distance:  some  dome  or  spire,  with  the  golden 
sunlight  streaming  on  it,  only  to  disappear 
from  view  a  moment  later. 

The  queen  had  again  become  almost  gay ;  for 
after  all,  it  was  a  principle  of  hers  that  one  must 
always  smile,  Kke  the  gods.  *'A  certain  outer 
gaiety,"  she  once  said  to  me,  "Hke  one's  toilet, 
is  a  matter  of  decency  or  good  breeding ;  that  is 
your  duty  both  to  your  neighbour  and  to  your- 
self, just  as  one  ought  to  contrive  to  be  no  more 
unsightly  to  behold  than  one  can  possibly  help." 
She  looked  out  from  between  the  black  curtains 
of  the  shelter,  appearing  to  take  an  interest  in 
the  various  incidents,  as  we  slowly  sailed  along. 

We  were  now  passing  through  a  poor  and  pop- 
ulous quarter,  with  narrow  streets  into  which 
it  was  as  impossible  for  the  light  to  stream  as 
into  the  bottom  of  a  well.  Evidently  it  was 
bathing  time  for  the  Uttle  ones.  From  the 
windows,  the  parents  kept  watch  over  them  as 
they  splashed  about,  close  to  the  doors,  in  the 
still  water.  Some  of  the  tiny  infants  looked  so 
comical  in  their  bathing  costumes  that  the  queen 
could  not  refrain  from  a  hearty  laugh. 


58  The  Exile 

Then  silence  again  fell  on  the  party,  as  though 
the  anxiety  caused  by  thoughts  of  the  dim,  un- 
certain future  were  pressing  heavily  on  all. 

Absentmindedly,  perhaps  even  in  slightly 
ironical  tones,  the  queen  asked  Mademoiselle 
Helene  .  .  . : 

"Ah  !  Has  any  one  seen  the  papers  to-day? 
Is  there  anything  new  concerning  us?" 

"  Certainly.  To  think  that  I  had  forgotten  to 
inform  Your  Majesty.  ...  In  those  of  France, 
there  is  quite  a  serious  item  of  information.  ..." 

Then,  after  a  pause  which  made  us  only  the 
more  attentive,  she  continued,  without  the 
slightest  change  of  expression : 

"It  would  seem  that  I  have  committed  suicide 
for  the  third  time  ! " 

This  was  so  unexpected,  and  uttered  in  so 
irresistibly  droll  a  tone  of  voice,  that  we  aU 
burst  out  laughing. 

"Yes,"  continued  the  yoimg  lady,  calmly, 
though  in  somewhat  savage  and  mocking  ac- 
cents, "this  time  it  is  laudanum  !  It  appears 
I  swallowed  a  considerable  quantity,  but  Your 


The  Exile  59 

Majesty,  warned  in  time,  succeeded  in  restoring 
me  to  life." 

About  that  time,  indeed,  the  journals  were 
continually  giving  details  of  the  suicide  of  Made- 
moiselle Helene  .  '.  .  and  as  she  was  very  intelli- 
gent and  rather  inclined  to  scoff  and  ridicule, 
all  this  introduced  quite  an  unexpected  and  comi- 
cal element  into  the  painful  situation.  I  re- 
member, too,  what  she  said  to  me  in  this  con- 
nection, and  this  time  she  showed  herself  grave 
and  dignified:  "Never!  .  .  .  Just  what  a 
servant-girl  would  do,  is  it  not?  ...  I  quite 
agree  that  such  a  denouement  would  settle  many 
difficulties,  but  it  is  too  vulgar  a  solution  to 
please  me."  She  further  implied  that  there 
would  be  greater  dignity  in  retiring  to  a  life  of 
obscurity  and  quiet,  which  subsequently  she 
actually  did. 

In  Venice,  she  still  felt  interested  in  all  the 
excitement  she  was  causing  in  Europe;  for  she 
was  too  young  and  too  womanly  not  to  enjoy 
the  intoxication  of  the  romantic  adventure  of 
which  she  found  herself  the  heroine.  True,  the 
press  had  converted  this  love  story,  which  was 


6o  The  Exile 

so  honourable  and  natural,  almost  inevitable  in 
fact,  into  something  dramatic  and  strange.  All 
the  same,  to  pass  as  a  charmer,  or  even  a  per- 
verse instrument  of  destiny,  still,  in  some  re- 
spects, excited  the  imagination  of  Mademoiselle 
Helene  .  .  . ;  at  all  events,  this  seemed  less 
cold  and  gloomy  than  the  deathlike  silence  which 
was  subsequently  to  be  her  lot  when  she  was  in 
disfavour  and  had  left  the  court  never  to  re- 
turn. .  .  . 

All  sadness  had  now  departed,  thanks  to  the 
beautiful  autumn  evening  sun,  as  his  setting 
radiance  streamed  over  Venice.  Those  who 
watched  the  passage  of  the  handsome  gondola, 
from  their  windows,  peering  through  the  curtains 
of  the  shelter  at  the  white  princess  who  was 
enjoying  the  sail,  might  easily  have  caught 
snatches  of  gay  conversation,  borne  across  the 
water. 

During  the  past  year  the  queen,  to  my  mind, 
had  made  considerable  progress  towards  that 
state  of  supreme  dispassion  which  brings  with  it 
perfect  serenity  of  soul  and  the  favour  of  heaven. 


The  Exile  61 

When  twilight  fell,  we  had  made  considerable 
progress,  finding  ourselves  in  a  lonely  quarter, 
and  separated  from  Venice  by  a  wide  lagoon. 
The  silence,  the  old  ruins  of  houses  and  quays, 
the  still  water  around,  suddenly  filled  us  with 
gloom  as  the  hght  faded  away.  A  sort  of  old 
curiosity  shop,  containing  Venetian  glass  and 
old  iron  all  covered  with  dust,  attracted  our 
attention  as  we  passed  along ;  so  we  craved  the 
queen's  permission  to  land  on  this  deserted 
quay,  and  examine  the  strange  articles  for  sale. 

Extraordinarily  slender  and  dainty  little 
ewers,  small  caskets  ornamented  with  swans  and 
dolphins,  were  what  we  discovered  as  we  rum- 
maged about  in  the  dust-covered  collection,  a 
number  of  strange  objects  which  we  purchased 
as  we  went  along,  —  as  quickly  as  possible  so 
as  not  to  keep  the  queen  waiting  too  long,  — 
finding  pleasure  in  drawing  lots  when,  perchance, 
the  same  article  was  pounced  upon  by  more 
than  one  of  us.  And  Mademoiselle  Helene  .  .  ., 
quite  a  child  on  such  an  occasion  and  free  from 
any  visible  sign  of  affectation,  ran  off,  on  each  new 
acquisition,  to  show  her  prize  to  the  queen,  into 


62  The  Exile 

whose  care  it  was  forthwith  handed;  whilst 
Her  Majesty,  whom,  contrary  to  all  etiquette, 
we  had  left  alone,  received  this  childlike  way 
of  doing  things  with  indulgent,  motherly  smiles. 

The  night  had  almost  fallen  when  we  returned 
to  the  hotel  Danieli.  Immediately  after  dinner, 
we  were  to  start  again  and  enjoy  a  serenade. 

The  queen,  who  refused  to  eat  anything,  keep- 
ing up  her  strength  by  means  of  some  medical 
preparation  or  other,  remained  lying  in  the 
gondola;  she  merely  ordered  that  the  latter 
be  rowed  out  more  into  the  open,  in  order  that 
she  might  enjoy  a  greater  degree  of  quiet.  She 
assured  us  of  her  wish  to  be  alone,  so  as  to  com- 
pel the  rest  of  us  to  dine  in  the  hotel  dining- 
room. 

But  it  was  not  long  before  we  returned. 
Meantime,  our  music  had  arrived:  a  large 
broad  gondola,  lit  up  by  numerous  lanterns 
and  containing  a  double  string  quartet,  a  chorus, 
and  two  soloists  —  a  contralto  and  a  tenor. 

The  illuminated  gondola  started  as  soon  as  we 
had  taken  our  seats  in  the  queen's,  and  we  fol- 
lowed.    The  black  shelter  had  been  removed, 


The  Exile  63 

and,  in  the  dim  light,  we  could  see  the  white 
fairy,  reclining  on  her  cushions. 

Then,  following  in  the  wake  of  the  music,  we 
again  began  a  slow,  winding  sail,  now  passing 
along  wide  streets,  well  lit  within  and  without, 
for  the  moon  was  shining  brightly,  and  then 
again  traversing  some  dismal  old  quarter,  dark 
almost  as  pitch.  A  number  of  other  gondolas 
also  followed,  our  floating  cortege  increasing 
with  each  bend  of  the  lagoon,  and  all  these 
silent  lovers  of  song,  gUding  behind,  listened  to 
the  serenade. 

Natural  and  languishing,  thrilling  one  through 
and  through,  was  this  Italian  music;  at  times 
rising  in  an  anticipated  crescendo  and  echoing 
between  the  marble  walls  of  the  palaces,  and 
then  again  dying  away  by  degrees  in  lingering 
cadences.  There  was  no  trace  of  fatigue  in  the 
thrilling  voices,  which  were  employed  with  a 
degree  of  skill  native  to  this  land,  even  in  the 
case  of  the  least  gifted  singers. 

The  music  of  a  people  is  intended  to  be  heard 
in  the  country  which  gave  it  birth,  with  its 
natural  environment  of  sound,  odour,  and  light. 


64  The  Exile 

Even  this  Italian  music  which,  speaking  abso- 
lutely, is  of  an  inferior  kind,  may  charm  the 
soul  to  its  depths  when  thus  heard  at  nighttime, 
reaching  one's  ears,  —  with  its  occasional  de- 
lightful surprises  caused  by  echoes  or  varying 
distances,  —  from  an  ever  gliding  gondola,  which 
one  follows,  in  a  reclining  posture,  rocked  on  the 
surface  of  the  waters,  now  near,  now  far  away, 
—  in  the  midst  of  the  glory  of  Venice,  and  be- 
neath the  summer  moon  and  stars. 

"This  forms  part  of  my  treatment,"  said  the 
queen,  with  a  smile.  "Songs  and  the  open  air 
are  my  doctors.  You  know  the  beneficent 
influence  of  music  on  .  .  .  (she  pointed  to  her 
head).  Remember  King  Saul  of  old.  ..." 
Her  irony,  however,  modified  by  the  sweetness 
of  her  voice,  never  succeeded  in  manifesting 
the  least  tinge  of  bitterness. 

We  now  formed  a  long  cortege  of  over  a  hun- 
dred gondolas,  an  eager  pushing  throng,  grazing 
the  stones  or  the  marble  walls,  as  we  glided 
along  the  narrow  streets.  Close  by,  in  barques 
which  obstinately  hugged  our  own,  I  remem- 
ber there  were  some  beautiful  young  women  — 


The  Exile  65 

whether  Venetians  or  foreigners  I  know  not  — 
extravagantly  attired  and  wearing  lace  mantillas. 
The  Hght  from  the  beacons  enabled  us  to  catch 
a  ghmpse  of  them  from  time  to  time,  lying 
stretched  on  cushions.  Moreover,  the  queen 
had  been  recognised;  her  name  was  repeated 
from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  the  crowd,  interested 
in  the  charming  patient,  maintained  a  discreet 
attitude. 

People  came  to  the  windows  to  watch  the 
serenade  pass  below,  greeting  it  with  applause. 
The  sound  of  violin  or  'cello  would  at  times 
add  its  mystery  to  that  of  the  human  voice, 
as  we  advanced  in  that  music-laden  dark- 
ness. .  .  . 

Beneath  the  Rialto  Bridge  it  is  customary 
for  serenades  to  halt.  Here,  in  stranger  fashion 
than  elsewhere,  between  the  stagnant  water 
and  the  archway  of  stone,  the  vibrations  become 
intensified.  We  made  a  rather  lengthy  stay, 
listening  to  a  plaintive  duet,  with  chorus,  which 
gradually  —  doubtless  because  of  the  place  and 
the  hour  —  came  to  sound  in  our  ears  as  a  sort 
of  incantation. 


66  The  Exile 

Back  at  the  hotel  Danieli,  about  eleven  o'clock, 
we  took  leave  of  the  queen.  The  windows  of 
the  old  palace  looked  down  on  the  lagoon,  re- 
splendent beneath  the  moon's  beams.  Not  a 
breath  of  air  that  warm  August  night,  glorious 
beyond  compare.  Right  in  front,  beyond  the 
reflecting  waters,  could  be  seen  two  figures  of 
St.  George  the  Greater,  the  one  of  a  luminous 
grey  tint,  rising  heavenwards ;  the  other  darker 
and  reversed,  plunging  into  the  watery  depths. 
Above,  in  the  mighty  azure  vault,  and  below,  in 
imaginary  depths,  shone  similar  stars,  in  perfect 
symmetry.  And  the  silent  gondolas,  shadow 
and  substance,  with  two  sterns  and  two  prows, 
like  black  paper-cut  figures  that  have  just  been 
unfolded,  passed  along,  with  their  red  lanterns, 
between  the  two  skies,  looking  as  though  they 
were  proceeding  through  empty  air,  dragging  be- 
hind them  long  undulating  streaks  in  their  train. 

Then,  for  the  first  time  since  my  arrival,  I 
became  fully  conscious  that  I  was  no  longer  in  a 
Venice  of  dreamland,  such  as  was  visible  from 
between  the  curtains  of  the  shelter,  but  in  the 
real  Venice,  which  in  itself  alone  deserves  to  be 


The  Exile  67 

visited  and  admired.  And,  so  as  not  to  lose  so 
glorious  a  night,  I  again  went  down  to  the  quay, 
took  the  first  gondola  that  came  up,  and  out 
again  into  the  open,  in  the  direction  of  St. 
George,  on  the  other  bank. 

We  advanced  slowly,  with  no  special  aim  in 
view,  fascinated  by  the  light  of  the  moon  mir- 
rored in  the  still  water.  Little  by  little,  as  we 
went  farther  away  from  the  bank,  the  delicate, 
exquisite  outlines  of  the  palaces  became  more 
distinct. 

Thus  did  Venice,  the  Venice  of  classic  story, 
wrapped  in  the  moon's  soft  beams,  quite  un- 
changed in  its  main  features,  once  more  become 
the  one,  incomparable  city,  wonderful  to  behold, 
as  in  the  centuries  long  past. 


Saturday,  15th  August,  1891. 

A  splendid  sky  and  the  sun  brightly  shining. 
The  bells  of  Venice  are  ringing  out  from  every 
steeple,  for  to-day  is  the  festival  of  the  Assump- 
tion of  the  Virgin. 


68  The  Exile 

This  morning  the  queen  is  more  dejected, 
more  sad  and  depressed  than  she  has  been  for 
some  time.  In  the  first  place,  yesterday's 
apparent  improvement  has  not  been  maintained, 
she  has  not  even  the  strength  to  stand  upright, 
and  the  ominous  two  men-servants  are  again 
needed  to  carry  her  from  one  salon  to  another. 

The  news  of  a  recent  execution  troubled  her 
greatly.  A  treacherous  servant-girl,  whom  the 
maids  of  honour  had  long  ago  surnamed  Marino 
Falieri,  had  just  been  dismissed  and  sent  back 
to  Germany,  convicted  of  having  purloined  and 
copied  some  of  the  queen's  letters  and  pages 
from  her  private  diary,  for  the  benefit  of  some 
mysterious  enemies.  .  .  .  Ah  !  It  is  quite  cer- 
tain in  the  case  of  anyone  at  all  acquainted 
with  this  ideal  queen,  that  nothing  in  these 
pages,  if  read  aloud  to  the  whole  world,  would 
be  of  a  nature  to  rouse  doubts  regarding  her 
integrity  and  rectitude,  though  dangerous  poli- 
tics might  occasionally  have  been  mentioned, 
useless  revelations  made,  and  cruel  truths  told. 
What  appalled  the  queen  most  of  all  was  to 
feel  herself  surrounded  by  anonymous  enemies, 


The  Exile  69 

lurking  beneath  her  very  shadow,  so  to  speak, 
and  who  shrank  from  nothing,  not  even  from 
such  cowardly  expedients  as  this. 

Then,  too,  another  mail  had  arrived  from 
Germany  without  bringing  any  letter  from  the 
prince  royal.  His  expected  reply  was  not  forth- 
coming. The  queen,  whose  somewhat  intolerant 
loyalty  caused  her  to  rebel  against  such  treat- 
ment, had  written  to  him  several  days  pre- 
viously, calling  upon  him  to  state  whether  or  not 
he  had  withdrawn  his  promise,  and  if  he  had,  to 
return  to  Mademoiselle  Helene  .  .  .  her  letters 
and  betrothal  ring.  In  fact,  the  marriage 
seemed  broken  off,  though  the  prince  had  said 
nothing;  days  and  weeks  passed  without  any 
answer. 

At  the  first  blush,  one  is  tempted  to  blame 
him,  and  yet,  before  judging  from  the  ordinary 
standards,  we  must  remember  that  there  may 
have  been  State  reasons  for  his  silence,  that  he 
was  very  young,  and  perhaps  suffering,  and 
finally  that  absolutely  nothing  is  known  of  his 
inner  struggles  or  of  the  pressure  that  may  have 
been  brought  to  bear  upon  him. 


70  The  Exile 

And  also,  before  attaching  any  degree  of  blame 
to  Mademoiselle  Helene  ...  for  giving  way  to 
ambitious  dreams,  we  must  ask  ourselves  if 
any  young  lady,  whoever  she  might  be,  loved 
by  a  charming  prince,  the  heir  to  a  throne, 
would  not  have  done  everything  possible  to 
bring   such   a  marriage   to   a   successful  issue. 

About  eleven  o'clock,  as  the  sun  was  blazing 
down  upon  us,  the  queen  had  requested  to  be 
carried  back  into  her  room  and  left  alone  for 
an  hour  or  two,  to  try  to  obtain  a  little  sleep. 
Her  two  maids  of  honour,  her  secretary,  and  my- 
self thereupon  set  out  on  foot,  proceeding  along 
the  quays  and  the  arcades  of  the  palace  of  the 
Doges,  then  taking  the  large  paved  squares, 
and  finally  going  along  any  passage  where  it  is 
possible  to  walk  about  as  in  an  ordinary  town. 
We  hastened  to  make  our  several  purchases 
and  return  before  Her  Majesty  awoke,  so  that 
not  a  moment  of  her  precious  presence  might 
be  lost.  To  us,  this  was  an  occasion  of  relaxa- 
tion and  recreation,  almost  of  child's  play,  such 
as  happens  from  time  to  time  in  the  most  anxious 


The  Exile  71 

and  storm-tossed  periods  of  life :  we  felt  al- 
most as  though  we  were  playing  truant,  in  a 
place  where,  after  all,  we  were  practically 
strangers  and  free  to  enjoy  ourselves  in  this 
innocent  fashion.  All  the  dealers  of  the  Piazza 
San  Marco  had  spread  out  their  white  tents; 
as  we  hurried  along,  an  African  sun  streamed 
down  upon  innumerable  displays  of  glassware 
and  the  jewellers'  shops,  all  coral  red;  its  rays 
shone  everywhere,  on  cathedral  and  palaces, 
burning  and  flashing  upon  that  wealth  of  mosaics 
and  statues  which  makes  up  Venice. 

A  few  passers-by,  however,  turned  to  look 
again  at  us,  as  though  half  recognising  Mademoi- 
selle Helene  .  .  . ,  the  romantic  heroine  of  the 
day.  And  she,  with  soul  lulled  to  rest,  or 
perhaps  because  she  was  carefully  concealing 
her  true  feeHngs,  seemed  this  morning  to  take 
a  child's  delight  in  everything  she  saw.  On 
calling  to  mind  the  news  contained  in  the  pre- 
vious day's  papers,  we  even  exercised  our  im- 
agination in  dwelling  on  the  possibility  of  the 
four  of  us  committing  suicide,  with  all  kinds 
of  dreadful  details,  right  in  the  middle  of  the 


72  The  Exile 

Piazza  San  Marco,  —  a  catastrophe  which  as- 
suredly would  have  dumfounded  the  press. 

Feeling  somewhat  rested  on  awaking,  the 
queen  read  a  letter  from  the  king,  stating  that 
the  political  business  which  detained  him  in  the 
East  would  soon  be  finished,  and  that  he  hoped 
to  be  in  Venice  within  a  few  days.  She  appeared 
glad  at  the  idea  of  seeing  him  again. 

During  the  midday  meal,  she  asked  how  we 
had  been  spending  the  time,  —  as  though  we 
were  children  returning  from  a  walk,  —  listening 
with  an  indulgent,  almost  amused,  smile  as 
we  told  of  our  purchases,  the  terrible  heat  of  the 
sun,  and  even  the  suicide  idea.  From  time  to 
time  the  laughter  shone  in  her  eyes,  lighting 
them  up  as  we  had  so  often  seen  in  the  past. 

This,  indeed,  in  happier  times,  was  one  of  the 
signs  and  charms  of  her  profound,  though  de- 
lightful nature,  these  furtive  outbursts  of  gaiety 
and  spontaneous  laughter,  invariably  aroused 
by  the  most  incoherent,  fleeting,  and  childish 
trifles.  After  all,  a  nature  that  is  rigidly  cor- 
rect and  knows  nothing  of  this  kind  of  laughter 


The  Exile  73 

and  childlike  innocence  is  almost  inevitably 
harsh  and  Hmited  in  its  outlook,  or  at  all  events 
of  a  very  ordinary  and  commonplace  type. 

We  started  again  for  our  daily  sail  in  the 
gondola.  Yielding  to  my  entreaties,  the  queen 
had  kindly  brought  with  her  the  manuscript 
of  the  Book  of  the  Soul,  to  read  passages  from  it 
aloud  as  we  went  along. 

"Not  just  now,"  she  said;  "this  evening, 
when  we  come  to  a  quieter  spot,  a  little  farther 
out.  I  feel  so  tired.  ..."  And  her  resigned 
smile,  so  sweet  and  sad,  seemed  to  crave  in- 
dulgence for  everything  she  did. 

At  first,  not  a  word  was  uttered,  for  we  all 
felt  sympathy  with  the  queen's  dejected  attitude. 

By  degrees,  however,  obedient  to  her  will, 
the  life  returned  to  her  voice  and  eyes,  —  as  we 
continued  to  glide  along  at  the  same  measured 
swing  through  old,  sad-looking  quarters,  with 
their  armour-sheathed  windows.  At  first,  the 
conversation  was  intermittent,  consisting  of 
short,  tired  sentences ;  but  gradually  the  queen 
grew  more  animated,  she  regained  her  wonted 


74  The  Exile 

vivacity,  and,  touching  upon  one  subject  after 
another,  we  came  to  speak  of  the  rehgions  of 
India,  of  Buddhism  and  Nirvana. 

Then  Her  Majesty  and  myself  engaged  in  a 
discussion  on  such  questions  as  the  survival  of 
the  soul  and  the  eternal  revoir.  Oh  !  We  did 
not  discuss  the  reality  of  these  things,  alas  !  .  .  . 
but  only  the  more  or  less  consoling  forms  in 
which  such  books  as  claim  to  be  revelations 
have  presented  them  to  mortals.  And  I  de- 
fended —  both  because  I  was  really  attached  to 
it  and  because  of  the  sweet  traditions  of  child- 
hood —  the  ineffably  alluring  Christian  creed, 
convinced  then,  as  I  am  now  and  shall  always  be, 
that  no  more  radiant  or  glorious  mirage  will  ever 
enchant  the  long  hours  of  suffering  or  give  con- 
solation at  the  moment  of  death.  And  some 
misunderstanding  or  other  must  have  arisen, 
though,  at  bottom,  we  were  of  the  same  mind. 
The  rest  of  the  party,  listening  in  the  gondola, 
now  began  to  use  stronger  arguments  than  the 
queen  had  used,  and  appeared  to  insinuate  that 
the  Book  of  tJte  Soulj  to  which  I  was  about  to 
listen,  contained  a  more  consoling  message  than 


The  Exile  75 

Christianity  could  give.  The  queen,  doubtless 
absent-minded,  permitted  them  to  champion  the 
bold  proposition  they  had  put  forth,  and  to 
speak,  in  terms  almost  of  disdain,  of  the  faith 
which,  for  centuries  past,  has  brought  peace  and 
comfort  to  the  dying.  They  themselves  were 
the  initiates,  learned  in  the  Book  of  the  Soul; 
they  were  in  possession  of  something  superior, 
something  more  soothing,  which  caused  them  to 
think  pityingly  of  the  Gospel.  To  me,  it  all 
appeared  childish  blasphemy  and  puerile  vanity ; 
of  a  sudden,  the  queen  seemed  less  great,  by 
reason  of  the  false  pride  inspired  by  her  book, 
and  a  painful  feeling  of  sadness  came  over  me 
at  this  unexpected  disappointment.  .  .  .  Then 
I  began  violently  to  defend  Christianity,  as 
though  I  had  been  personally  abused  and  insulted. 
This  was  followed  by  an  embarrassing  silence, 
spell-breaking  and  disenchanting.  The  gondola 
was  still  gliding  through  the  stagnant  waters, 
past  ruins  and  the  old  quarters  of  the  city.  It 
was  again  the  bathing  hour ;  from  time  to  time 
little  girls  came  out  of  the  houses  and  took  de- 
light in  swimming  after  us,  their  laughing  faces. 


76  The  Exile 

like  those  of  Kttle  sirens,  rising  above  the  water, 
close  to  the  gondola. 

VI 

Now  we  are  far  from  the  land,  on  the  vast 
lagoon,  and  quite  alone.  In  the  distance,  Venice 
appeared  much  lower,  for  domes  and  spires  had 
regained  their  true  proportions,  rising,  in  mingled 
groups,  high  above  the  houses. 

The  maids  of  honour  declared  this  to  be  a 
suitable  place  to  stop  and  open  the  Book  of  the 
Soul,  which  they  had  brought  with  as  much 
ceremony  as  though  it  were  the  Tables  of  the 
Law.  I  now  dreaded  the  reading  that  was  to 
follow,  as  something  vain  and  foolish. 

The  queen,  however,  still  smiling  serenely, 
replied  that  it  was  too  soon,  and  that  we  must 
first  lunch,  like  ordinary  people  out  on  a  picnic. 
At  a  sign  of  her  hand,  the  two  gondolas  follow- 
ing us  and  bearing  the  rest  of  the  small  court, 
drew  up  alongside  the  one  in  which  we  were 
seated,  and  Her  Majesty,  opening  a  luncheon 
basket,  began  to  distribute  our  portions  to  each 
of  us,  playfully  treating  us  as  though  we  were 


The  Exile  77 

children.  Then  came  the  turn  of  the  gondoliers, 
whom  she  served  herself,  with  her  beautiful, 
almost  transparent,  hands.  We  partook  of 
bread  and  cake,  currants  and  peaches  —  the 
beautiful,  sun-ripened  fruit  of  Italy. 

In  this  connection,  there  comes  to  my  mind  a 
trifling  incident,  one,  however,  which  in  itself 
affords  a  striking  index  to  the  queen's  nature. 
On  her  lap,  over  her  white  dress,  she  had  spread 
a  small  light-grey  mantle,  with  several  over- 
lapping capes.  An  overripe  peach  fell  on  it, 
leaving  a  slight  stain.  "Oh!"  she  exclaimed, 
in  half  jesting,  half  serious  accents,  "What  a 
pity  !  And  I  was  so  fond  of  this  little  mantle  !" 
On  handing  it  back,  after  shaking  it  over  the 
sea,  I  ventured  to  remark  that  there  was  scarcely 
any  sign  of  a  stain  and  that  in  any  case  it  would 
not  be  seen,  as  it  chanced  to  be  underneath  one 
of  the  capes. 

"Oh  !  whether  it  is  seen  or  not  is  a  matter  of 
indifference  to  me.  All  the  same,  /  shall  know  it 
is  there;  and  that  is  sufficient,  you  understand." 

An  answer  expressive  both  of  her  great  loyalty 
and  of  her  purity  of  soul. 


78  The  Exile 

The  summer  sun  was  a  glowing  ball  of  fire, 
low  in  the  heavens,  when  the  queen  began  the 
promised  reading  of  the  Book  oj  the  Soul.  His 
ruddy  golden  tints  flashed  upon  Venice  in  the 
distance.  And  there  lay  our  three  gondolas,  at 
rest  on  the  surface  of  the  broad  lagoon.  Not 
another  barque  was  visible. 

Before  beginning,  the  queen  gave  me  a  re- 
proachful look,  a  very  kind  though  roguish  and 
confident  glance. 

Then  that  incomparably  charming  voice  of 
hers  began  to  make  itself  heard.  She  read 
slowly,  in  a  way  entirely  her  own,  with  a  gentle 
soothing  effect,  like  the  music  murmuring 
through  some  stately  cathedral.  One  would 
have  been  content  merely  to  Hsten  to  the  voice ; 
that  alone  would  have  been  a  dehght,  even  if 
the  meaning  and  sense  had  not  been  clear. 
My  mind,  however,  was  somewhat  anxiously 
intent  on  grasping  the  signification  of  every 
word.  .  .  . 

How  beautiful  the  book  was,  how  different 
from  what  I  had  feared  !    There  was  nothing 


The  Exile  79 

dogmatic,  nothing  subversive  or  presumptuous. 
It  was  the  expression  of  the  human  soul  probed 
to  its  depths,  and  the  effect  was  strange  and 
novel;  every  page  seemed  to  breathe  forth  a 
spirit  of  deep  humihty  in  suffering.  The  chapters 
were  short,  each  developing  some  rare  and  pro- 
found thought,  clothed  in  grandly  simple  lan- 
guage, as  poetical  as  that  of  the  Bible.  From 
time  to  time  came  passages  chanted  in  a  kind 
of  apocalyptic  tongue.  The  peace  and  comfort 
that  breathed  from  this  endless  plaint  lay  in  its 
spirit  of  sweet  resignation,  of  pity  for  the  lowliest 
of  her  fellow-beings.  The  book  was  a  new  and 
sublime  form  of  prayer,  the  beseeching  appeal 
to  a  God,  raised  by  an  entire  humanity.  It  made 
no  presumptuous  claim  to  destroy,  to  build  up, 
or  to  promise  anything. 

And  to  think  that  this  book,  almost  through- 
out a  work  of  genius,  a  work  in  which  her  nobility 
of  soul  shone  brightest,  is  doubtless  now  lost, 
torn  up,  or  burned;  to  think  that  men  will 
never  read  it!  .  .  . 

From  time  to  time  the  queen  stopped.  "Oh  ! 
I  am  so  tired,"  she  said,  "so  tired.  ..."     For 


8o  The  Exile 

a  brief  moment  her  voice  seemed  to  fade  away 
and  die.  Yes,  worn  out  through  suffering  for 
others :  that  was  more  evident  than  ever,  when 
one  looked  upon  her  colourless  face,  which  vied 
in  whiteness  with  her  hair  and  her  dress. 

Then  the  music  of  her  voice  returned,  in  a 
fresh  outburst  of  sound,  as  she  sang  the  mysteries 
of  the  soul.  And  I  remember  my  surprise  when 
my  gaze  once  chanced  to  fall  on  the  gondoUers, 
as  they  sat  there  motionless,  leaning  over  to- 
wards the  queen,  unable  to  grasp  anything  be- 
yond the  charm  of  sound  and  rhythm,  Hstening 
all  the  same,  in  captivated  wonderment  at  some- 
thing they  felt  to  be  rehgious  and  sublime. 

The  hght  was  growing  dimmer  and  dimmer. 
The  great  red  sun  had  just  disappeared  behind 
a  corner  of  the  city. 

Two  small,  strange-looking  women  had  by 
this  time  approached  in  a  tiny  canoe.  They 
were  frail  and  ugly,  of  an  age  and  class  impos- 
sible to  define.  They  handled  the  paddle  with 
the  skill  of  savage  women  and  were  dressed  in 
English  bathing  costumes.  Drawing  near,  they 
sprang  into  the  water  and  swam  right  up  to  the 


The  Exile  8i 

gondolas.  For  a  few  moments  they  listened  to 
the  queen  as  she  read,  a  strange,  evil  look  on 
their  faces,  then  they  dived  and  swam  away, 
only  to  reappear  shortly  afterwards. 

"I  cannot  see  any  longer,"  said  the  queen. 
Whereupon  the  gondoUers  removed  the  shelter, 
and  the  white  fairy  appeared  more  in  view  as 
the  light  faded.  Her  voice,  too,  was  growing 
fainter  and  fainter.  Venice  now  appeared  out- 
Hned  in  the  distance  against  the  pale  yellow  sky. 
And  in  the  twilight,  the  two  Little  creatures, 
noiselessly  diving  again  and  again,  seemed  like 
mocking  evil  spirits  of  the  night,  held  there,  all 
the  same,  by  the  charm  of  that  melodious 
voice. 

Finally  we  said,  "Enough,  please  do  not  read 
any  more.  Your  Majesty  is  quite  worn  out. 
..."  The  manuscript  fell  from  the  queen's 
hand.     Night  had  now  closed  all  around. 

Back  in  the  hotel,  the  queen,  really  exhausted, 
was  straightway  carried  to  her  bed,  and  I  was 
deprived  of  the  pleasure  of  spending  my  last 
evening  in  her  company.  I  was  to  leave  Venice 
next  morning,  and  she  had  promised  to  receive 


82  The  Exile 

me  for  a  few  moments  in  her  room  before  I  took 
my  departure.  As  I  bent  over  to  kiss  her  hand, 
just  when  the  two  men-servants  carried  her 
away  in  her  arm-chcdr,  I  had  no  suspicion  I  was 
seeing  her  for  the  last  time. 

Entering  my  room,  I  had  not  been  there  more 
than  a  few  minutes  when  a  faithful  servant  of 
Her  Majesty  handed  me  one  of  those  familiar 
grey  envelopes,  stamped  with  her  initials  and 
crown.  It  contained  a  sheet  of  paper  on  which 
she  had  written  in  pencil,  in  large  elegant  charac- 
ters: 

/  hope  you  no  longer  think  my  hook  claims  to 
he  m^ore  consoling  than  Christianity.  No,  all  it 
claims  is,  that  it  is  true. 

After  all,  how  few  attain  to  real  Christianity! 
What  falsehoods  have  found  refuge  heneath  that 
excellent  cloak!  Leave  us  to  pass  through  those 
phases  of  intellectual  development  along  which 
we  are  probably  predestined  to  travel.  Fear 
nothing;  we  are  too  honest  to  be  shattered  and 
destroyed. 

Carmen  Sylva. 


The  Exile  83 

I  sat  long  at  my  window,  leaning  on  the  bal- 
cony of  Gothic  marble,  and  looking  at  the  fairy- 
land of  Venice  in  the  summer  moonHght.  I 
reflected  on  the  sombre  destiny  of  this  admirable, 
this  revered  woman.  Memory  brought  back  to 
me,  in  that  great  palace  of  Bucharest,  the  cruel 
eyes  of  all  her  ''daughters,"  on  the  occasion  of 
hex  fete,  those  "daughters"  who  owe  everything 
to  her  and  yet  bear  her  a  grudge  for  not  doing 
even  more  for  them. 

I  know  not  what  political  errors  this  queen 
may  have  committed  to  have  incurred  such  dis- 
favour in  a  land  to  which  she  had  given  her  whole 
heart  and  Hfe.  After  all,  it  would  not  be  for 
me  to  judge  them. 

There  is  only  one  fault  I  can  see  clearly: 
that  of  having  tried  to  bring  about  this  marriage, 
and  imagined  that  a  maiden,  one  amongst  so 
many  others  who  envied  the  favour  lavished 
upon  her,  could  become  a  queen  in  her  own 
country !  And  this  fault  was  probably  more 
dangerous  than  all  the  rest ;  the  one  which  all 
those  little  charming  dolls,  who,  a  year  ago, 
danced  the  hora  in  a  long  gold-spangled  chain 


84  The  Exile 

around  their  sovereign,  will  never  forgive. 
This  was  the  origin  of  that  raging  feminine 
hatred  which  stops  at  nothing  and  gradually 
brings  every  other  kind  of  hatred  into  mani- 
festation. 

And  there  welled  up  within  my  heart  a  great 
wave  of  pity  for  this  queen,  a  feeling  of  despair 
at  my  inability  to  defend  and  avenge  her  so 
little. 

vn 

Sunday,  i6th  August. 

This  morning,  half  an  hour  before  my  de- 
parture, I  came  down  to  bid  farewell  to  the 
queen. 

There,  in  the  large  salon,  I  found  the  maids  of 
honour  awaiting  me.  The  queen,  they  tell  me, 
is  much  worse  than  the  previous  evening.  They 
have  both  spent  the  night  by  her  bedside.  It  is 
quite  impossible  for  her  to  receive  me. 

Then  I  begin  to  write  down  all  I  intended  to 
say  in  that  farewell  conversation.  I  hand  my 
letter  to  the  two  maids  of  honour  and  a  gondola 
takes  me  to  the  station. 


The  Exile  85 

Seated  in  the  carriage  which  is  to  convey  me 
to  Genoa,  I  see  approaching  a  faquino  who 
had  run  after  me  and  is  perspiring  freely.  He 
hands  me  a  grey  envelope  bearing  the  royal  arms 
and  containing  the  following  message,  written 
in  pencil : 

/  can  scarcely  write,  for  I  am  in  bed  and  feel 
much  worse. 

On  the  other  hand,  your  enthusiasm  has  been 
so  helpful  to  us  I  Still,  I  should  have  been 
glad  to  resume  our  discussion  in  a  calmer 
spirit.  Then  you  would  not  have  taken  fright; 
you  would  have  seen  how  fervent  and  sincere 
Christianity  still  is  in  our  hearts,  and  how  far- 
reaching  are  our  hopes.  Fear  no  petty  meanness 
in  your  small  circle  of  devoted  friends  ! 

Carmen  Sylva. 

vm 

November,  1892. 

This  was  the  very  last  time  I  saw  the  queen's 
handwriting. 


86  The  Exile 

I  know  not  in  what  gloomy  silence  she  is  en- 
veloped, behind  what  leaden  curtain  her  fair  open 
countenance  is  veiled.  Vague  rumours  reached 
me  that  she  had  been  taken  away,  far  from  all 
her  companions  of  the  past,  to  the  banks  of 
an  Italian  lake,  there  to  spend  several  months 
m  rest  and  solitude,  and  that  she  is  now  in  a 
gloomy  castle  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine.  .  .  . 


CONSTANTINOPLE   IN    1890 


CONSTANTINOPLE  IN   1890 

|N  uneasy  feeling  of  profound  sad- 
ness comes  over  me  as  I  begin  this 
chapter.  On  being  asked  to  write 
it,  my  first  impulse  was  to  put 
forward  some  excuse  or  other,  but  that  seemed 
to  be  a  kind  of  treason  against  the  land  of 
Turkey;   so  now  I  begin. 

Still,  in  the  present  instance,  it  is  more  im- 
possible than  ever  for  me  to  give  an  impersonal 
description,  with  that  unconcern  and  mental 
detachment  an  artist  requires.  Once  again, 
those  who  wish  to  follow  me  must  reconcile 
themselves  to  seeing  everything  with  my  eyes: 
it  is  almost  as  though  they  must  catch  faint 
glimpses  of  mighty  Istambul  through  the  mirror 
of  my  soul.  .  .  . 

Istambul !    The  most  magical  of  all  the  names 
that  still  fill  me  with  enchantment  and  delight. 
No  sooner  is  it  uttered  than  there  stands  out- 
89 


go  Constantinople  in  1890 

lined  before  me  an  inner  vision :  at  first,  in  the 
vague  distance  and  high  in  the  air,  I  see  a  faint 
sketch  of  something  gigantic,  the  silhouette  of  a 
city  that  compares  with  none  other.  At  its 
feet  lies  a  sea  ploughed  by  thousands  of  ships 
and  craft  of  every  description  in  ceaseless  motion 
and  agitation,  whilst  a  very  babel  of  sound  is 
heard,  uttered  in  every  tongue  of  the  Levant. 
Like  a  long  horizontal  cloud,  smoke  hovers 
above  the  dense  mass  of  black  steamboats  and 
gilded  caiques,  above  the  motley  crowd  who 
raise  their  strident  voices  in  sales  and  bargain- 
ings, an  ever  present  mist  casting  a  veil  over  all 
the  tumult.  And  there,  above  this  steam  and 
coal-dust,  appears  the  great  city,  suspended  in 
midair,  so  to  speak.  Into  the  clear,  open  sky 
shoot  minarets,  keen  as  lances,  dome  after 
dome,  large  and  round,  of  dull  greyish  white, 
rising  tier  upon  tier  like  pyramids  of  stone 
steeples :  the  still  mosques,  imchanged  by  the 
rolling  ages,  —  whiter,  perhaps,  in  those  by- 
gone times  before  our  Western  steamers  had 
defiled  the  surrounding  air,  and  the  swift  sailers 
of  the  past  were  the  only  ones  to  anchor  in  their 


Constantinople  in  1890  91 

shade,  though  still  of  the  same  type,  crowning 
Istambul  for  centuries  past  with  the  same 
gigantic  cupolas,  and  giving  it  that  unique 
silhouette,  the  result  being  more  magnificent 
and  splendid  than  any  other  city  on  earth  could 
offer.  These  mosques  represent  the  unalterable 
past;  their  stones  and  marbles  manifest  the 
old  Mussulman  spirit,  still  dominant  wherever 
they  are  to  be  found.  Whether  coming  from 
distant  Marmora  or  the  far-off  plains  of  Asia, 
they  are  the  first  thing  one  sees  emerge  out  of  the 
moving  mists  of  the  horizon ;  above  all  the 
paltry  turmoil  of  modern  life  on  quay  and  sea 
they  carry  the  thrill  of  old  memories,  the  great 
mystic  dream  of  Islam,  the  thought  of  Allah  the 
terrible,  and  of  death.  .  .  . 

At  the  foot  of  these  gloomy  mosques  I  have 
spent  the  most  unforgettable  time  of  my  life; 
they  have  been  the  constant  witnesses  of  my 
adventures  —  as  those  delightful  days  sped  by  so 
swiftly.  I  saw  them  everywhere,  with  their 
great  round  domes,  now  white  and  dull  beneath 
the  summer  suns  when  I  would  seek  the  shade  of 
the  plane-trees  on  some  lonely  old  square ;   and 


92  Constantinople  in  1890 

then  again  dimly  black  in  December  midnights, 
beneath  the  cold  uncertain  moon,  as  my  caique 
glided  secretly  past  sleeping  Istambul;  ever 
present  —  and  almost  eternal  —  by  my  side,  as 
I  passed  along  by  chance  and  with  no  thought 
of  the  morrow.  Each  mosque  seemed  to  exhale 
a  different  kind  of  sadness,  a  peace  and  spirit 
of  meditation  all  its  own  which  hovered  above 
the  solemn  neighbourhood  around.  By  de- 
grees I  came  to  love  them  with  a  strange  love, 
the  more  I  lived  the  Turkish  life,  the  more  I 
became  attached  to  this  proud,  dreamy  race, 
and  my  soul,  passing  through  that  period,  filled 
with  mingled  anguish  and  love,  began  to  open 
out  to  Oriental  mysticism. 

And  afterwards,  when  I  had  to  leave,  how 
profound  was  the  melancholy  which  came  over 
me  one  pale  March  evening,  on  the  Sea  of 
Marmora,  as  I  watched  the  outlines  of  the  city 
gradually  fade  away  and  finally  disappear  from 
view.  .  .  .  When  everything  else  was  dim  and 
almost  out  of  sight,  the  great  domes  and  minarets 
still  appeared  above  the  cold  sea  mist,  and  the 
loftly,  stately  contour  of  Istambul  was  the  last 


Constantinople  in  1890  93 

to  vanish.  This  final  image  symbolised,  so  to 
speak,  all  the  bitter  regrets  I  was  leaving  be- 
liind,  all  that  dear  Turkish  life  for  ever  ended : 
that  one  silhouette  was  graven  on  my  memory, 
never  again  to  be  effaced.  During  the  wander- 
ing years  that  followed,  especially  when  travel- 
ling on  distant  seas,  often  have  I  seen  in  dreams 
that  city  of  domes  and  spires  outlined  on  the 
grey  imaginary  horizon  of  my  slumbers,  each 
time  bringing  with  it  an  impression  of  sadness, 
as  of  a  dear  lost  fatherland.  I  could  sketch  it 
by  heart,  without  a  single  error,  —  and,  in  real 
life,  every  time  I  return,  there  comes  over  me  a 
feeling  of  mingled  sadness  and  delight,  which 
the  flight  of  time  has  scarcely  yet  succeeded  in 
diminishing. 

Still,  I  do  not  think  the  mirage  of  my  personal 
memories  deludes  me  unduly  as  regards  the 
charm  and  the  spell  of  this  aspect.  It  is  undis- 
puted as  well  as  legendary ;  whosoever  the  travel- 
lers may  be,  even  though  they  know  nothing 
about  the  place,  they  are  strangely  impressed 
when  they  draw  near  the  city  and  that  imposing 
silhouette  begins  to  take  shape  in  the  distance 


94  Constantinople  in  1890 

And  as  long  as  Istambul  —  though  daily  be- 
coming more  commonplace,  and  continually 
being  desecrated  by  all  —  retains  the  charming 
outline  of  this  first  approach,  it  will  remain,  in 
spite  of  everything,  the  wondrous  city  of  the 
Caliphs,  the  Queen  of  the  Orient. 

Around  Istambul  are  grouped  other  districts 
and  towns,  series  of  palaces  and  mosques  whose 
ensemble  forms  Constantinople :  first,  we  have 
Pera,  where  the  Christians  live ;  then,  along  the 
Bosphorus,  from  the  sea  of  Marmora  to  the 
Black  Sea,  an  almost  uninterrupted  succession 
of  suburbs.  And  all  these  various  parts  of  the 
same  whole  communicated  with  one  another  by 
means  of  boats  and  caiques  innumerable.  The 
motley  crowds  of  the  great  city  are  scattered 
along  the  coast,  —  and  the  sea  is  covered  with 
passers-by  who  continually  come  and  go  in 
rapid  succession. 

These  districts  are  quite  distinct  from  each 
other;    different  in  race,  religion,  and  customs. 

No  capital  anywhere  could  be  more  diverse  in 
aspect,  more  changing  from  hour  to  hour,  for 


Constantinople  in  1890  95 

sky,  wind,  and  clouds  vary  incessantly.  This 
is  a  climate  of  burning  summers  and  gorgeous 
light;  it  is  also  one  of  dismal  winters  and  rain 
showers,  of  snowy  mantles  suddenly  shrouding 
thousands  of  black  roofs. 

And  it  seems  to  me  as  though  the  streets  and 
squares  and  suburbs  of  Constantinople  belong 
to  me  in  some  degree,  and  that  I  also  belong  to 
them.  I  feel  a  grudge  against  all  these  boulevard 
loungers,  deposited  here  in  crowds  by  the  Orient 
express,  for  I  cannot  help  regarding  them  as 
trespassers  profaning  a  domain  dear  and  sacred 
to  me,  and  feeling  nothing  of  the  admiration 
and  respect  that  old  Istambul  still  commands. 
These  districts,  which  they  look  upon  with 
vapid  astonishment  and  with  which  I  am  better 
acquainted  than  with  those  of  any  other  city  in 
the  world,  in  bygone  days  I  traversed  at  all  hours, 
day  and  night,  obeying  the  dictates  of  my 
fancy,  and  mingling  generally  in  the  life  and  in- 
terests of  the  humblest  of  the  people.  But  how 
could  I  speak  here  of  all  this  with  the  requisite 
degree  of  impartiahty?  Every  step  I  take  I 
recall  memories  of  youth  and  love.     How  could 


96  Constantinople  in  1890 

I  be  expected  to  judge  these  memories  when  I 
adore  them  !  .  .  . 

Before  writing  this,  I  was  determined  to  pay 
another  visit  to  Constantinople,  as  a  mere 
tourist,  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  a  more  de- 
tached impression  of  a  city  with  which,  alas  ! 
I  have  not  a  single  Uving  link  remaining,  my 
only  duty  being  that  of  visiting  tombs  in  the 
cemeteries. 

I  proceeded  thither  from  Roumania,  in  the 
spring  of  1890,  in  the  month  of  May,  via  Rust- 
chuk,  Varna,  and  the  Black  Sea.  All  the  passen- 
gers are  on  deck,  on  the  lookout,  so  that  they 
may  not  miss  the  entrance  of  the  Bosphorus,  a 
classic  site,  extolled  in  all  the  guide-books. 

Throughout  the  world  there  are  far  more 
gorgeous  sites,  with  more  luxuriant  vegetation 
and  loftier  mountains ;  it  is  in  its  inmost  de- 
tails, doubtless,  that  the  unique  charm  of  the 
Bosphorus  lies,  —  a  very  real  one  and  quite  in- 
dependent of  my  own  predilections,  since  it  is 
felt  by  all  who  come  here. 

And  now  we  have  Cheragan,  Dolma-Bagche, 
a  line  of  snow-white  palaces  on  marble  quays 


Constantinople  in  1890  97 

along  the  seaside.  And  the  sight  becomes 
beautiful  beyond  compare,  for  through  the  morn- 
ing mist  the  three  towns  simultaneously  ap- 
pear over  against  each  other:  Scutari  on  the 
left,  in  the  form  of  an  amphitheatre  on  the 
Asiatic  coast;  Pera  on  the  right,  tier  upon  tier 
of  houses  and  palaces  covering  the  entire  Eu- 
ropean coast;  and  there  in  the  middle,  on  a  head- 
land projecting  between  the  two,  towering  above 
the  confused  jumble  of  smoke  and  craft  and 
dominating  all  else,  —  the  stately  domes  and 
minarets  of  Istambul ! 

On  the  heights  of  Pera,  in  a  hotel  filled  with 
English  tourists  where  I  have  put  up  and  form 
one  of  the  crowd,  there  is  a  marvellous  view  from 
my  sitting-room  over  the  Golden  Horn,  the 
head  of  the  Old-Seraglio,  and  the  endless  stretches 
of  azure  sea  dotted  with  the  isles  of  Asia.  The 
glimpses  one  obtains  over  immense  distances 
from  every  side  form  one  of  the  subtle  attrac- 
tions of  this  land;  each  of  these  three  towns 
affords  a  view  of  the  other  two,  with  the  sea  in 
the  background;    wherever  you  live,  you  are 


98  Constantinople  in  1890 

sure  to  perceive,  rising  above  the  housetops 
and  the  trees,  fairy  scenes  outlined  in  the  air. 
Indeed  the  range  of  vision  here  is  wider  and  more 
far-reaching  than  in  any  other  place  with  which 
I  am  acquainted. 

Six  o'clock  the  same  evening.  (May  I  be  par- 
doned for  spending  the  whole  day  in  a  pilgrim- 
age to  the  cemeteries,  and  in  souvenir  visits  to 
various  spots  of  interest  to  no  one  but  myself.) 

The  hour  of  sunset  finds  me  on  the  quay  of 
Tophaneh,  seated  in  the  open  air  in  front  of  a 
cafe,  —  as  is  the  custom  in  the  Orient,  —  watch- 
ing the  passers-by  as  the  shades  of  night  fall. 

The  quay  of  Tophaneh  is  filled  with  a  medley 
crowd  who  come  and  go ;  it  is  a  kind  of  vast 
square,  the  outlet  of  wide  thoroughfares,  the 
tributaries  of  districts  entirely  different  from 
one  another. 

On  fine  evenings,  half  the  pathway  is  ob- 
structed by  rows  of  divans,  of  red  or  motley 
velvet,  and  occupied  by  smokers  plunged  in 
reverie.  They  sit  there,  as  though  in  the  pit 
of  a  huge  theatre,  watching  the  mighty  stream 


Constantinople  in  1890  99 

of  Oriental  life,  and  the  coming  and  going  of 
ships  on  the  Bosphorus.  Above  the  blue 
waters  and  the  far-distant  hills  of  Asia  rises  a 
lofty  mosque,  with  its  intricate  and  complex 
dome  and  its  minarets  with  their  open  galleries. 
It  is  set  off  with  glaring  white  and  yellow,  two 
altogether  Turkish  tints  in  which  all  the  frame- 
work and  panelling  of  the  comparatively  modern 
buildings  are  decorated :  most  of  the  mosques, 
palaces,  and  modem  mansions  are  partially 
painted  in  these  colours,  which  match  well  with 
the  distant  blue  of  sea  and  sky,  for  they  serve 
as  a  background  to  the  motley  groups  of  passers- 
by  and  the  red  head-gear  which  is  to  be  seen 
ever3rwhere.  Nor  must  we  forget  the  crude 
green  of  the  large  slabs,  ornamented  with 
gold  inscriptions,  which  are  inevitably  to  be 
seen  above  every  porch,  gateway,  or  fountain. 
White,  yellow,  and  gold-striped  green  are  the 
colours  of  the  elegant  mosque  opposite  as  well 
as  of  the  surrounding  kiosks  and  of  all  that 
mass  of  Oriental-looking  buildings  which  stands 
out  against  the  dull,  glimmering  blue  tints  of 
the  Bosphorus  and  the  Asiatic  coast. 


lOO  Constantinople  in  1890 

The  rows  of  open-air  divans  gradually  be- 
come filled  with  persons  representing  every 
costume  and  every  race  in  the  Levant.  Bus- 
tling waiters  hurry  about,  carrying  tiny  cups  of 
cofifee,  raki,  bonbons,  and  glowing  embers  in 
small  brass  vases;  and  the  long,  pleasant 
evening  hours  of  Oriental  idleness  begin;  the 
narghiles  are  lit,  and  yellow  cigarettes  fill  the 
air  with  odorous  fumes.  All  kinds  of  people 
and  carriages  pass  along,  handsome  cavalry 
riders  on  their  well-groomed  steeds  going  to  or 
from  the  Sultan's  palaces ;  livery-stable  keepers, 
leading  their  saddled  horses  by  the  bridle; 
sailors  of  nondescript  nationaHty  out  for  a 
stroll  now  that  their  day's  work  is  over ;  itiner- 
ant traders  tinkling  their  little  bells,  or  scream- 
ing out  at  the  top  of  their  voices  the  merits  of 
theircakes,  sherbets,  or  fruit  of  various  kinds.  .  .  . 

At  Galata,  whose  principal  thoroughfare  — 
in  a  state  of  eternal  clamour  and  uproar  —  ends 
in  this  square,  there  rises  a  shout  and  din, 
louder  and  louder,  until  it  reaches,  somewhat 
muffled  by  the  distance,  the  loungers  seated  on 
the  red  divans.     This  Galata  is  the  mighty  babel 


Constantinople  in  1890  loi 

of  the  Levant ;  from  the  whole  district  rises  an 
infernal  noise  all  along  the  Bosphorus  until 
morning  dawns. 

Here,  too,  debouches  the  largest  of  the  steep 
streets  mounting  to  Pera  —  the  Christian  suburb 
perched  above  our  heads.  On  both  sides  of 
the  street,  beneath  bowers  of  vine  leaves,  sit 
hundreds  of  porters  engaged  the  whole  day  in 
carrying,  from  ship,  quay,  or  custom-house, 
travellers'  trunks  or  bimdles  and  bales  of  goods, 
and  now  taking  their  refreshment  in  front  of 
the  Turkish  cafes  which  succeed  one  another 
in  unbroken  sequence.  Scarcely  a  foot  of  ground 
remains  unoccupied  by  their  little  stools  and 
tables.  Glad  of  their  evening's  rest,  they  come 
along,  one  after  another,  and  ask  for  a  narghile : 
these  men,  whose  business  it  is,  by  the  aid  of 
their  broad  shoulders  and  limbs  of  steel,  to  take 
the  place  of  waggons  and  carts,  which  are  un- 
known in  Constantinople. 

The  crowd  gradually  swells  in  volume,  and 
soon  the  mass  of  porters  actually  touch  one 
another.  They  are  all  dressed  alike  in  rough 
brown  cloth,  oddly  streaked  with  red  and  black, 


I02  Constantinople  in  1890 

the  jacket  wide  open,  exposing  to  view  their 
stalwart,  sun-burnt  chests.  Their  serried  ranks 
rise  tier  upon  tier,  varying  with  the  steepness  of 
the  street,  their  murmuring  voices  mingle  with 
the  peculiar  gurgling  sound  coming  from  their 
innumerable  narghiles,  and  intoxicating  fumes 
increasingly  fill  the  air  as  night  falls  on  the 
scene.  .  .  . 

This  way  of  spending  the  evenings  has  re- 
mained the  same  ever  since  I  can  remember  — 
everything  that  happens  during  this  hour  in 
the  various  districts  of  the  immense  city  returns 
vividly  to  my  mind !  .  .  . 

Towards  the  north,  by  the  broad  thorough- 
fare parallel  to  the  sea,  may  be  reached  the 
Sultan's  quarters :  impenetrable  palaces,  lofty 
walls  enclosing  parks,  barracks,  and  seraglios. 
All  that  the  night  brings  hither  is  peace  and 
quiet,  beneath  the  avenues  of  acacias,  now  all 
white  with  bloom. 

On  the  heights  above  our  heads,  cosmopolitan 
Pera  will  soon  light  up  its  great  European  shops, 
filled  with  goods  for  sale,  modelled  after  those 
to  be  seen  in  London  or  Paris.     Beneath  the 


Constantinople  in  1890  103 

artificial  light,  carriages  will  roll  to  and  fro,  in 
Western  fashion.  Instead  of  diminishing  the 
incessant  stir  and  tumult  of  life,  the  approach 
of  the  evening  hour,  with  the  gas  everywhere 
ablaze,  rather  intensifies  it.  Tourists  rush  about 
as  they  return  from  their  day's  excursions,  eager 
to  feel  themselves  safe  in  their  hotels  before 
night  overtakes  them.  Table  d'hote  is  served 
in  English  fashion ;  out  in  the  street,  you  feel 
as  though  you  were  in  Europe.  Levantine 
women  wear  loud,  extravagant  dresses;  large- 
eyed  beauties  who  would  have  looked  so  attrac- 
tive had  they  been  dressed  as  Greeks,  Armeni- 
ans, or  Jewesses.  All  the  same,  in  this  amusing 
pele-mele,  we  find  the  Oriental  touch  in  the 
numerous  red  fezzes,  the  gangs  of  porters,  with 
their  medley  of  embroidered  costumes,  having 
mounted  from  the  more  Oriental  streets  below, 
or  again  —  since  that  portion  of  the  city  is  far 
above  the  sea-level  —  in  glimpses  of  distant 
scenes,  the  dull  blue  expanse  of  the  Sea  of 
Marmora,  or  a  portion  of  the  Asiatic  coast, 
almost  lost  to  view  in  the  twilight.  .  .  . 

Behind  us  and  beyond  the  overhanging  hill 


I04  Constantinople  in  1890 

of  Pera  lie  the  Jewish,  Armenian,  and  Turkish 
quarters,  scattered  about  hillside  and  valley, 
all  along  the  Golden  Horn  and  facing  mighty 
Istambul,  which  overtops  them  from  the  other 
bank.  It  is  mostly  by  sea  that  they  communi- 
cate with  one  another,  in  hght  caiques  which  re- 
main in  perpetual  motion  as  long  as  there  is  the 
faintest  glimpse  of  light  in  the  sky.  .  .  .  How 
strange  that  the  mere  proximity  of  things  long 
lost  sight  of  has  the  power  to  revive  their  mem- 
ory !  It  it  almost  fifteen  years  since  I  lived 
here  and  I  had  almost  forgotten  how  the  even- 
ings were  spent  and  yet  I  need  only  find  myself 
idly  dreaming  in  Constantinople,  —  though  in 
a  different  street,  far  away  from  my  usual  former 
haunts,  —  and  lo !  everything  comes  back  to 
my  mind  with  the  utmost  distinctness,  as  though 
I  had  left  the  place  only  the  previous  day.  .  .  . 
First,  the  very  Turkish  quarter  of  Kassim-Pacha, 
with  its  tiny  old  houses,  all  in  Oriental  style, 
its  little  ancient-looking  shops  and  cafes,  with 
their  overhanging  plane-trees :  this  was  one  of 
my  favourite  resorts  in  bygone  days.  Even 
now  I  see  it  in  imagination,  with  its  own  peculiar 


Constantinople  in  1890  105 

animation  as  evening  approaches.  Sailors  be- 
longing to  the  marine  service  are  everywhere, 
having  just  left  the  arsenal  or  the  great  black 
ironclads  anchored  opposite,  in  the  Golden 
Horn.  Laughing  heartily,  they  stroll  along  in 
groups,  hand  in  hand,  crowding  the  streets  and 
squares.  All  wear  fezzes,  and  their  collars  are 
red  instead  of  blue :  with  this  exception,  they 
resemble  our  own  sailors.  Women  await  them 
(mothers  or  sisters,  naturally)  and  fall  in  by 
their  side ;  they  wear  long  white,  blue,  or  pink 
veils.  Their  officers,  too,  halt  here  for  a  smoke, 
in  the  humblest  cafes  frequented  by  the  poorest 
of  the  people.  Moreover,  these  very  democratic 
interminglings  of  rich  and  poor  are  pecuhar  to 
Turkey :  pachas  and  beys  drinking  in  public 
in  the  company  of  the  poor,  chatting  with  them 
and  explaining  the  news  —  all  without  loss  of 
dignity,  for  Mussulmans  never  drink  to  the 
point  of  intoxication.  Other  districts  follow, 
assuming  more  and  more  a  village  aspect  the 
farther  one  advances  into  the  interior;  then 
the  deserted,  trackless,  barren  country  begins, 
with  a  sad  charm  of  its  own,  in  spite  of  the 


io6  Constantinople  in  1890 

fact  that  it  is  dotted  with  tombstones  every- 
where. 

The  Golden  Horn  separates  all  these  quarters 
from  mighty  Istambul,  over  which  a  kind  of  re- 
ligious silence  is  about  to  descend  as  night  falls. 

And  in  the  heart  of  this  gulf,  locked  within  a 
city,  beneath  the  old  cypress  and  plane-trees, 
lies  the  sacred  quarter  of  Eyub,  the  soul  of  Is- 
lam in  Europe,  buried  in  a  sort  of  funereal  grove, 
close  to  the  great  cemeteries,  and  with  tombs 
all  around.  It  slumbers  in  awful  silence,  broken 
only  from  time  to  time  by  the  chanting  of 
psalms  in  a  neighbouring  mosque.  In  all  the 
kiosks  of  the  dead,  before  the  lofty  catafalques 
crowned  with  turbans,  small  night-lamps  will 
soon  be  ht ;  passing  along  the  sombre  avenues, 
they  are  seen  shining  through  the  window-frames, 
like  yellow  eyes  in  the  darkness. 

For  great  Istambul  is  about  to  sink  in  almost 
as  peaceful  a  slumber  as  in  past  ages,  whilst 
Western  tumult  and  noise  are  beginning  in  those 
portions  of  the  shore  occupied  by  infidels.  In 
the  new  streets,  around  the  neighbourhood  of 
Santa  Sophia,  a  few  shops,  here  and  there,  will 


Constantinople  in  1890  107 

be  lit  up,  and  the  shining  lanterns  of  some  strag- 
gling cafe  may  be  seen :  everywhere  else  in  the 
immense  city,  mysterious  darkness  and  dull 
slumber  will  reign  supreme.  It  would  appear  as 
though  this  Golden  Horn  were  something  more 
than  an  arm  of  the  sea  separating  the  two  parts 
of  Constantinople,  and  that  it  actually  set  up 
an  interval  of  two  or  three  centuries  between  the 
active  fevered  life  on  the  one  bank  and  the  peace- 
ful sleep  and  quiet  on  the  other. 

Whilst  I  am  here,  plunged  in  reverie  out  in 
the  street  on  this  red  divan  and  watching  the 
crowd  passing  in  the  dim  light  through  the 
fumes  of  narghiles,  suddenly,  high  in  the  air,  a 
flaming  circle  appears  as  a  signal  around  the 
slender  spire  of  a  minaret  in  Tophaneh  —  the 
religious  illuminations :  the  Ramazan !  .  .  . 
I  had  forgotten  that  this  was  the  ninth  month  of 
the  Mohammedan  year,  when  every  Turk  be- 
longing to  the  lower  classes  turns  night  into  day. 
And  I  was  expatiating  on  the  calm  of  Istambul ! 
.  .  .  Very  soon,  it  will  be  more  noisy  than 
Pera  and  Galata  combined,  and  the  uproar  will 


io8  Constantinople  in  1890 

be  continued  throughout  the  night,  —  so  I  shall 
join  the  crowd  and  share  in  this  unwonted 
gaiety.  .  .  . 

It  is  time  to  return  to  lunch  at  the  hotel.  In- 
stead of  making  my  way  to  Pera  along  the 
direct  and  steep  route,  I  will  make  a  sign  to  one 
of  these  good  fellows  before  me,  leading  their 
saddled  horses  by  the  bridle,  and  will  make  a 
circuit,  right  through  all  the  noise  and  tumult 
of  Galata,  before  subsequently  ascending  by  the 
Field  of  the  Dead. 

Galata,  in  the  late  twilight  and  illumined 
with  lanterns  !  Noise  and  racket  on  all  sides  ! 
Somewhat  startled,  my  horse  skips  about  on  the 
pavement,  in  the  midst  of  numberless  passers- 
by,  and  a  sea  of  red  fezzes  and  rough-spun  cos- 
tumes. Other  horsemen  pass  along  at  full  speed ; 
there  is  a  continual  coming  and  going  of  carriages 
and  heavy  tram-cars,  preceded  by  runners  blow- 
ing horns.  An  indescribable  odour  of  alcohol,  ab- 
sinthe, and  aniseed  fills  the  air.  The  large  and 
dangerous  coffee-houses  open  their  doors  and  are 


Constantinople  in  1890  109 

speedily  ablaze  with  light;  the  great  would-be 
alcazars  illuminate  their  flag-decked  faqades  — 
here  an  Italian  pantomime  is  being  played, 
whilst  close  by  an  orchestra  of  Hungarian  ladies 
plays  selections  from  Strauss.  Resorts  of  ill 
fame  are  already  crowded ;  the  men  and  women 
seated  in  front  of  the  cafes  obstruct  the  narrow 
pathway  and  frequently  come  into  unpleasant 
contact  with  the  horses.  One  is  deafened  by 
the  hubbub  of  conversation  carried  on  in  many 
tongues,  as  well  as  by  the  confused  clashing 
sound  of  cymbals,  tinkling  bells,  and  big  drums. 
I  trot  past  the  surging  masses,  amusing  myself 
by  calling  aloud,  as  in  bygone  days:  "Bestourf 
Bestour  !"  (Look  out !  Look  out !),  the  cry  of 
Turkish  crowds,  just  as  "Balekl  Balek!"  is 
that  of  an  Arab  mob.  .  .  . 

In  the  hotel  above,  the  usual  banalities  of  a 
table  d'hote.  A  tourist,  recently  disgorged  by 
the  Orient  Express,  deigns  to  make  a  few  practi- 
cal enquiries : 

"There  is  nothing  to  do  in  Istambul  at  night, 
is  there,  monsieur?  (This  is  the  stereotyped 
piece  of  information  served  out  to  one  by  every 


no  Constantinople  in  1890 

hotel  guide ;  viz.  that  during  the  evening  hours 
there  is  nothing  to  see  in  Istambul,  and  that  it  is 
dangerous  to  walk  the  streets  of  the  city.) 

I  stare  at  him,  and  then  reply : 

"  Oh,  no,  monsieur  :  nothing  at  all  in  Istambul. 
Here,  in  Pera,  however,  close  by,  you  will  find 
two  or  three  most  delightful  howlers  of  the  cafe 
chantant  type.  .  .  ." 

After  dinner  I  mount  a  hired  horse  and  escape 
as  fast  as  I  can.  .  .  . 

It  is  a  fine  starry  night  as  I  make  my  way 
through  Galata,  which  is  in  the  height  of  the 
fete.  Finally,  leaving  the  noisy  street,  I  halt,  at 
the  water's  edge,  close  to  a  bridge  which  stretches 
away  in  the  distance  and  disappears  in  the  dim 
darkness.  Here,  a  sudden  change,  Hke  a  fairy 
scene  at  a  pantomime.  The  crowd,  the  hghts 
and  the  noise :  all  gone ;  a  profound  void  of  dark- 
ness and  silence  is  in  front  of  me ;  an  arm  of  the 
sea  lies  stretched  between  this  noisy  quarter 
and  another  great  fantastic-looking  city,  which 
is  seen  in  the  starry  background  with  its  dark 
silhouettes  of  minarets  and  domes.  It  is  a 
Ramazan  evening.     Suddenly,  on  every  floor  of 


Constantinople  in  1890  iii 

these  minarets,  around  their  festooned  galleries, 
shine  rows  of  fiery  garlands,  whilst  in  the  empty 
spaces  between  these  stone  steeples  pointing 
straight  upwards,  luminous  inscriptions  are  sus- 
pended by  invisible  wires,  as  startling  as  apocalyp- 
tic signs  traced  in  the  air  with  a  pen  of  fire. 

I  am  eager  to  be  there ;  the  invincible  attrac- 
tion of  stirring  memories  causes  me  to  hurry 
onwards  along  the  dark,  interminable  bridge 
which  leads,  across  this  arm  of  the  sea,  to  the 
dark-looking  city.  The  nearer  I  approach,  the 
higher  rise  the  cupolas  and  minarets  with  their 
wreaths  of  flame.  Now  I  am  at  their  feet;  I 
quit  the  moving  floor  of  the  bridge  for  the  peb- 
bles and  shingle  of  a  dim-looking  square  over 
which  towers  a  superb  mosque :  I  am  in  Istam- 
bul  at  last ! 

I  soon  turn  my  back  on  the  more  modern 
quarters  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Santa  Sophia 
and  the  Sublime  Porte,  the  boulevards  recently 
erected  in  orderly  rows  and  now  lit  up,  alas ! 
by  gas-jets,  whilst  venturesome  travellers  ride 
about  in  gaudy  equipages.  I  now  make  my 
way  towards  Old  Istambul,  still  a  great  city, 


112  Constantinople  in  1890 

thank  Heaven !  ascending  along  small  streets, 
dark  and  mysterious  as  ever,  with  yellow  dogs 
rolled  up  on  the  ground  and  growling  whenever 
one's  feet  brush  against  them.  Mon  Dieul  So 
far  they  have  escaped  destruction  by  the  city 
officials,  poor  animals  !  I  experience  a  feeling 
of  mingled  sadness  and  voluptuousness,  almost 
of  frenzy,  as  I  plunge  into  this  labyrinth  where  I 
am  quite  unknown  now,  though  I  myself  know 
it  all.  It  is  as  though  the  memory  of  a  long-dis- 
tant past,  of  a  former  Hfe,  were  being  restored 
to  my  present  consciousness.  .  .  . 

It  is  a  wonderfully  peaceful  May  night.  The 
semitransparent  darkness  allows  me  to  find  my 
way  about.  High  above  my  wandering  steps 
—  so  high  that  they  afford  no  more  hght  than 
the  stars  themselves  —  fiery  circles  appear  on 
every  side,  suspended  to  the  minarets  of  the 
mosques,  with  luminous  inscriptions  hanging  in 
the  air.  The  sombre,  narrow  streets  I  have  taken 
suddenly  open  on  to  the  immense  Seraskierat 
square,  with  all  its  light  and  music,  its  many- 
costumed  crowds.  I  merely  cross  this  square  to 
plunge  deeper  into  the  heart  of  the  old  city,  into 


Constantinople  in  1890  113 

the  delightful  and  still  unprofaned  quarters  of 
the  Suleimanieh  and  of  Sultan-Selim.  Then  fol- 
lows an  alternating  succession  of  dismal  little 
streets,  of  lights  and  human  beings.  In  the 
cafes,  Oriental  music  is  heard :  sorry  violins 
groaning  out  soul-harassing  melodies ;  corne- 
muses,  or  hornpipes,  singing  some  old-fashioned 
air,  in  shrill  plaintive  strains.  Asiatic  peasants, 
all  men,  dance  together  in  long  chains,  holding 
one  another  by  the  hand. 

Amazing  is  a  Ramazan  night  in  Istambul, 
but  this  evening,  the  thing  that  charms  me  most 
is  simply  a  harem  passing  along  a  soHtary  street, 
about  midnight.  .  .  .  The  street  is  very  dark 
and  narrow ;  above  the  lofty  railed-in  houses,  over 
against  a  starry  patch  of  sky,  may  be  seen  point- 
ing upwards  the  minarets  of  the  Suleimanieh, 
gigantic  black  hues  —  seemingly  diaphanous  — 
with  two  or  three  coronets  of  dying  fires  above 
each  other  from  top  to  bottom.  Profound  si- 
lence; not  a  soul  in  view.  Then  there  arrives 
a  group  of  five  or  six  women,  wearing  noiseless 
hahouches;  blue,  red,  or  pink  phantoms,  wrapped 
up  to  their  very  eyes  in  folds  of  Asiatic,  gold- 


114  Constantinople  in  1890 

wrought  silk.  They  are  preceded  by  two 
eunuchs,  staff  in  hand,  who  Hght  the  way  by 
means  of  great  antique-looking  lanterns.  It 
is  all  so  charming  and  reminds  one  of  a  scene 
from  the  Arabian  Nights,  as  it  passes  away  and 
is  lost  from  view  in  some  corner  or  other  of 
the  mysterious  labyrinth.  .  .  .  And  the  night 
seems  darker  than  ever,  on  the  disappearance  of 
the  lantern  lights,  whose  shadows  have  now 
ceased  to  dance  about  on  the  old  walls  and  pave- 
ments. ... 

Tuesday,  13th  May,  1890. 

I  continue  the  recital  of  my  second  day's  im- 
pressions only  at  five  o'clock  —  to  break  off 
before  night. 

At  five  o'clock,  then,  my  back  turned  upon  the 
modern  quarters  of  the  city,  I  enter  a  caique 
and  make  for  the  farther  point  of  the  Golden 
Horn,  on  my  way  to  the  suburb  of  Eyub. 

(For  the  benefit  of  those  unacquainted  with 
Constantinople,  it  may  be  explained  that  a 
caique  is  a  kind  of  long,  slender  canoe,  —  with 
the  bow  bent  crescent- wise,  —  on  which  one  sails 


Constantinople  in  1890  115 

in  a  reclining  posture.  There  are  hundreds  of 
them  in  every  harbour,  —  like  the  gondolas  of 
Venice.) 

The  Golden  Horn  is  quieter  the  farther  one 
sails  from  the  entrance,  which  is  crowded  with 
craft  of  various  kinds.  The  part  of  Istamboul 
along  which  I  am  now  sailing  is  more  ancient, 
more  dilapidated  and  deathlike  than  I  have  ever 
seen  it;  these  are  the  very  old  quarters,  from 
which  all  life  has  gradually  been  withdrawing 
and  transferring  itself  to  the  other  bank.  Nor 
had  I  ever  before  seen  them  with  that  aspect  as 
of  ruins  overrun  with  verdure ;  the  dark  tops  of 
the  trees  almost  disappearing  beneath  the  fresh 
green  of  the  month  of  May.  And  there  is  Eyub 
at  the  farther  end,  surrounded  by  black  cypresses 
and  the  great  dark-looking  woods. 

A  biting,  almost  cold,  wind  arises  at  the  hour 
of  sunset  every  evening,  and  small  waves  form 
on  the  surface  of  the  ruffled  water. 

Eyub,  the  holy  suburb,  is  still  the  unique  abode 
of  profound  peace  and  silent  prayer.  At  the  en- 
trance of  the  splendid  avenue  which  runs  parallel 
to  the  sacred  tombs  I  land,  and  find  myself  on 


ii6  Constantinople  in  1890 

stone  flags,  green  with  the  flight  of  time.  This 
avenue  which  opens  out  in  all  its  whiteness  buries 
itself  in  a  kind  of  sacred  wood  dotted  with  tomb- 
stones, —  a  greenish  whiteness  like  that  of  an- 
cient marble  seen  in  the  shade.  It  ends  in 
yonder  impenetrable  mosque,  whose  dome  is 
just  perceptible  beneath  a  clump  of  huge  cy- 
presses and  plane-trees.  On  right  and  left  it  is 
lined  with  kiosks  of  white  marble,  filled  with 
catafalques,  or  with  walls  pierced  with  small 
pointed  arches  through  which  the  cemeteries 
can  be  seen:  strange-looking  tombs  with  their 
faded  gildings  appearing  in  the  green-tinted  dark- 
ness of  the  undergrowth,  all  interspersed  with 
a  confused  mass  of  wild  rose-trees,  grass,  bram- 
bles. .  .  . 

Only  a  very  few  ever  pass  along  this  avenue 
of  the  dead:  dervishes  returning  from  prayer 
or  beggars  on  their  way  to  the  mosque,  near 
whose  doors  they  crouch  for  alms.  This  even- 
ing, there  are  three  little  Turkish  girls,  from  five 
to  ten  years  of  age,  looking  very  pretty  as  they 
play  about  in  their  bright  green  and  red  dresses. 
They  form  a  striking  and  somewhat  puzzling 


Constantinople  in  1890  117 

contrast  with  the  marble  tombs  and  the  funereal 
gloom  of  the  surroundings.  Besides,  this  was 
the  first  time  I  had  ever  been  here  in  the  full 
glory  cf  the  month  of  May,  and  I  find  the  fresh 
verdure  and  the  springing  flowers  form  quite  as 
jarring  an  element  as  these  three  little  girls. 
Resorts  of  such  infinite  gloom  never  become  gay 
and  cheerful  in  spring;  on  the  contrary,  this 
soft,  billowy  sky,  these  clusters  of  roses,  these 
jessamines  hanging  from  the  walls  and  which, 
for  centuries,  have  smiled  upon  the  passers-by,  in 
so  ephemeral  and  deceptive  a  guise,  always  at 
the  same  season :  all  this  only  adds  to  the  im- 
pression from  which  no  escape  is  possible :  that 
of  universal  desolation,  a  state  of  nothingness. 


Wednesday,  14th  May,  1890. 

We  numbered  at  least  thirty  guests  this  morn- 
ing, all  of  us  tourists,  as  we  sat  at  lunch  roimd  a 
large  table,  adorned  with  yellow  roses. 

Formerly,  the  crossing  of  the  Black  Sea  proved 
an  obstacle,  but  now  that  there  is  a  raUway 
coming  to  the  very  foot  of  the  Old  Seraglio,  amaz- 


ii8  Constantinople  in  1890 

ing  numbers  of  sight-seers  arrive  from  every  part 
of  Europe,  curiously  peering  here  and  there. 

Nor  can  I  reflect,  without  a  smile,  on  the  re- 
mark of  the  charming  wife  of  the  ambassador, 
as  she  glanced  round  at  the  company,  an  in- 
describably amused  look  in  her  eye,  and  said : 
"Oh,  you  see,  nowadays  I  don't  mind  a  tourist 
more  or  less.  ..."  The  phrase  was  devoid  of 
the  faintest  tinge  of  discourtesy  towards  her 
guests,  though  it  was  uttered  in  such  a  way  as  to 
make  the  insignificant  words  seem  extremely 
droll.  All  chosen  guests,  these  travellers ;  very 
poUte  and  pleasant  in  speech ;  the  only  objection 
being  that  there  were  too  many  of  them  —  an 
artistic  perception  could  not  appreciate  such  an 
invasion;  though  let  it  be  understood  that,  in 
uttering  such  a  reproach,  there  is  no  more  ill 
will  in  my  mind  than  was  shown  in  the  remark 
of  the  lady  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

This  same  evening,  about  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  it  is  raining  in  Istambul.  The  air 
has  been  heavy  with  storm  all  morning,  and  now 
it  is  pouring  in  torrents. 

On  leaving  the  Sublime  Porte,  I  take  refuge 


Constantinople  in  1890  119 

for  the  rest  of  the  day  in  the  labyrinth  of  the 
Great  Bazaar.  (Istambul,  following  the  Orien- 
tal custom,  has  its  "bazaar"  a  city  within  a 
city,  shut  in  by  walls,  and  which  closes  its  soUd 
doors  every  night.) 

It  is  dull  and  gloomy  to-day  with  the  rain 
descending,  as  one  sits  beneath  the  wooden  roof- 
ing that  covers  every  small  street,  listening  to 
the  trickling  of  the  water  as  it  oozes  through  the 
tiles.  Through  a  kind  of  mist,  or  twihght  fog, 
can  be  seen  the  ghtter  of  gold-embroidered  silks 
and  satins,  surrounded  by  thousands  of  bibelots 
hung  up  on  the  stalls ;  crowds  of  people  swarm 
aroimd :  white- veiled  women  and  red-capped 
men.  Thank  Heaven,  this  bazaar  has  scarcely 
changed  at  all !  In  familiar  corners  I  recognise 
once  more  the  same  dark  Uttle  cafes,  flagged 
with  their  old  tiled  floors  of  Persian  porcelain 
and  the  curious  flowery  decoration,  in  which  the 
same  tiny  old  cups  have  served  for  years  and 
years.  Looking  out  through  the  open  door  on 
to  the  Turkish  crowds  hurrying  along  in  the 
fantastic  shades  of  the  avenues,  one  can  indulge 
in   the  same   dreams   as  in  bygone  days.     In 


I20  Constantinople  in  1890 

these  sheltered  retreats,  as  one  smokes  the  strong, 
light-coloured  tobacco,  the  whole  of  this  com- 
motion and  din  away  in  the  distance  seems  like 
the  jostle  and  rush  of  a  veritable  army  of  ghosts. 
Alas !  however,  here  are  further  attempts  to 
imitate  European  glass-windowed  shops.  And 
a  few  groups  of  gaping  foreigners  —  conducted 
tourists  evidently  —  pass  along,  elbowing  one 
another,  in  the  tow  of  some  bold-faced  guide. 
(The  English  tourists  take  things  more  quietly : 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  walk  about  as 
though  they  owned  the  whole  place,  I  really 
think  I  prefer  them  to  the  quizzing  Frenchmen, 
who  eternally  complain  of  the  ill-paved  streets, 
find  fault  with  the  bazaar  for  containing  nothing 
more  than  a  collection  of  articles  de  Paris,  and 
are  disposed  to  believe  that  all  these  old  turbaned 
dealers,  crouching  in  their  comers,  obtain  their 
carpets  from  the  Bon  Marche  or  the  Louvre.) 
Ofif  they  go,  saying  they  have  seen  Constanti- 
nople; they  even  exclaim  against  Mussulman 
dishonesty,  because  they  have  been  robbed  and 
plundered  (what  else  could  they  expect !)  by 
the  lower  type  of  guides  and  interpreters, — who 


Constantinople  in  1890  121 

are  Greeks  and  Armenians,  Jews  and  Maltese, 
or  any  other  race  except  Turks.  The  ordinary- 
Turk  might  be  a  boatman,  a  porter,  or  a  common 
workman,  he  would  never  descend  to  the  servile 
business  of  exploiting  foreigners. 

I  linger  for  a  time,  bargaining  for  old  bibelots 
in  silverware,  whilst  outside  the  daylight  is 
rapidly  fading  and  the  rain  steadily  falling.  This 
bazaar  looks  more  empty  and  desolate  than  ever, 
now  that  business  hours  are  past;  the  shops 
close  in  the  old,  narrow-covered  streets ;  buyers 
and  sellers  depart,  and  grey  darkness  falls  on 
this  labyrinth,  which,  throughout  the  night,  will 
be  nothing  more  than  a  bleak  wilderness. 

Really  I  must  stay  no  longer,  and  so  I  mount 
once  again  a  sorry-looking  hired  horse,  dripping 
with  rain,  standing  close  to  one  of  the  doors  of 
the  bazaar,  and  make  for  Pera. 

The  rain  stops,  but  the  sky  is  still  grey  and 
lowering,  the  old  roofs  streaming  with  the  recent 
downpours.  Descending  towards  the  Golden 
Horn,  along  narrow  alleys,  the  puddles  along  the 
path  send  the  mud  flying  in  every  direction  as 
we  trudge  through  them.     Of  a  sudden,  the  city 


122  Constantinople  in  1890 

has  again  resumed  its  winter  garb,  the  one  with 
which  I  am  best  acquainted  and  which  attracts 
me  most.  Now  my  impressions  become  alto- 
gether personal:  Istambul,  on  such  a  night,  is 
ugly  and  dull,  and  still  I  like  it  best  under  this 
aspect.  Slowly  and  regretfully  do  I  return,  in 
spite  of  the  rain  which  is  again  drizzKng  in  in- 
numerable streamlets  from  the  gHstening  roofs. 
How  easy  it  is  for  me  to  recall  the  past,  this  cool, 
rainy  evening ! 

On  reaching  the  hotel,  in  quite  leisurely  fashion 
notwithstanding  my  dripping  garments,  I  find 
awaiting  me  a  note  from  His  Excellency  the 
Grand  Vizier,  stating  that  His  Majesty  the 
Sultan  invites  me  to  the  palace  of  Yildiz,  to  see 
the  illuminations  of  the  Kadir-Guidjeci :  "A 
chaouch  [usher]"  he  informs  me,  "and  a  carriage 
will  call  for  me.  .  .  ." 

Within  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  after 
snatching  a  hasty  dinner  and  changing  into  a 
dress  suit,  I  find  myseK  driving  at  full  speed  in 
the  direction  of  Yildiz,  in  an  open  landau,  pre- 
ceded by  a  chaouch  galloping  ahead,  the  crowds 
parting  before  him  on  either  side.     The  sky  is 


Constantinople  in  1890  123 

once  more  clear;  the  stars  are  shining.  The 
marvellous  illuminations  of  the  Ramazan  are 
seen  everywhere;  whenever  a  distant  glimpse 
is  possible  between  the  sombre-looking  houses, 
it  resembles  a  scene  from  fairy-land. 

The  palace  of  Yildiz  is  a  considerable  distance 
away,  almost  in  the  country,  in  the  other  direc- 
tion from  Istambul,  which  we  are  leaving  be- 
hind in  our  rapid  course.  The  Bosphorus,  which 
also  may  be  seen  from  time  to  time,  and  Scutari 
beyond  it,  are  likewise  illumined  like  the  Euro- 
pean coast;  the  fairy  scene  extends  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  reach. 

In  front  of  us,  and  running  in  the  opposite 
direction,  a  surging  mass  of  human  beings  rushes 
madly  along;  half -naked  men  galloping  and 
shrieking.  From  the  distance,  I  make  out  the 
sinister  cry :    Yangun  vdr  I 

Fire  !  An  ever  recurring  event  where  there 
are  so  many  wooden  houses.  A  whole  district 
is  ablaze,  the  flames  filling  the  heavens  with  a 
great  ruddy  light,  adding  unexpected  illumina- 
tion to  the  fete.  Those  things  that  make  such  a 
dull  rumbling  sound  as  they  are  swiftly  dragged 


124  Constantinople  in  1890 

along  are  fire-engines,  drawn  by  excited  men, 
running  at  the  top  of  their  speed ;  the  wheels  get 
locked  with  those  of  my  landau.  .  .  .  Shrieks 
and  uproar.  .  .  .  The  chaouch  of  the  palace, 
however,  is  recognised,  order  is  restored,  and  we 
pass  on  our  way.  .  .  . 

Now  we  reach  the  broad,  straight  avenues, 
almost  deserted,  and  resiune  our  course  at  head- 
long speed. 

Then,  in  front,  shines  a  great  white  and  yellow 
illumination,  no  conflagration  this  time,  but 
fireworks  and  Bengal  Ughts  —  the  gardens  of 
Yildiz,  We  pass  the  gates:  then,  a  sudden 
cessation  of  all  sound,  we  are  galloping  along 
silent,  empty  avenues,  brilliantly  lit  and  lined 
with  myriads  of  fiery  garlands  and  girandoles. 
Nothing  but  white  lights  in  the  trees  and  white 
globes  on  the  grass;  no  motley  colours  here, 
whereas  on  the  other  hand  the  heavens  seem 
ablaze  with  blue  and  red  rockets,  streaked  with 
a  multicoloured  rain  of  fire. 

The  avenues  continue  to  ascend ;  not  a  soul 
is  to  be  seen.  The  illumination  grows  more  and 
more  intense,  though  in  one  direction  the  hori- 


Constantinople  in  1890  125 

zon  is  lurid  with  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  con- 
flagration. Another  gate;  then  the  route  is 
barred  by  battalions  of  horse-  and  foot-soldiers 
in  serried  ranks;  they  all  carry  torches  or  lan- 
terns, as  though  a  torchUght  retreat  on  a  large 
scale  were  being  prepared.  There  are  present 
hundreds  of  officers,  most  of  them  wearing  Orien- 
tal dolmans,  with  long,  flowing  sleeves.  What 
an  imposing  army ! 

These  thousands  of  men,  standing  there  mo- 
tionless, seem  absorbed  in  religious  meditation, 
throughout  these  fantastic,  dazzling  illumina- 
tions, beneath  that  fiery  downpour  of  changing 
colours  which  fill  the  dark  sky. 

My  guide,  the  chaouch,  utters  the  appropriate 
passwords,  and  a  clear  passage  is  made  for  us. 
He  conducts  me  to  the  first  floor  of  the  palace 
through  empty  salons  which  are  marvellously 
light,  for  the  lamps  within  and  the  illuminations 
without  flood  the  rooms  with  an  intense  glow. 
The  wainscoting  and  furniture  are  of  white  and 
gold ;  a  radiant  light  is  over  all.  There  is  some- 
thing indescribable  in  this  silence,  causing  one 
to  feel  that  all  these  armed  men  are  standing 


126  Constantinople  in  1890 

there,  mute  and  almost  holding  their  breath,  as 
though  overwhelmed  by  the  presence  of  the 
Sovereign.  Sweet  strains  of  religious  music 
come  from  without,  a  chorus  of  male  voices, 
clear  and  limpid,  chanting  psalms  in  a  strangely 
high  key,  with  something  imnatural  about  it 
all,  extraterrestrial,  if  one  might  thus  express 
the  sensation.  .  .  . 

In  the  salons  I  am  received  by  an  aide-de- 
camp, who  informs  me  that  the  Sultan  is  still 
in  the  Imperial  mosque,  whence  issue  these  sweet 
strains.  The  service,  however,  is  now  almost 
over,  and  if  I  approach  the  window,  I  shall 
shortly  see  His  Majesty  leave. 

At  a  distance  of  about  fifty  yards,  a  little 
below  the  window  at  which  I  have  taken  up  my 
position,  the  mosque  appears  before  me.  It  is 
quite  white  and  new-looking,  ornamented  with 
arabesques,  in  AUiambra  fashion.  Illumined 
within  and  without,  it  appears  to  be  as  trans- 
parent as  a  delicate  alabaster  carving,  and  the 
music  coming  from  it  gives  it  an  aspect  of  un- 
reality, as  though  it  were  the  principal  item  in 
the  glorious  firework  exhibition  now  taking  place 


Constantinople  in  1890  127 

on  every  side.  Around  its  strangely  luminous 
dome  appear  the  avenues  and  gardens  along 
which  I  have  come.  Clouds  of  Bengal  Hghts 
make  the  distance  look  quite  blurred,  confusing 
all  perspectives  —  already  sufficiently  compli- 
cated by  the  heights  on  which  I  stand.  A  huge, 
transparent  object,  apparently  suspended  in  the 
air,  bears  a  shining  inscription  in  Arabic  on  a 
dark  background ;  the  dazzling  phantasmagoria 
makes  it  impossible  to  guess  the  distance  of  this 
aerial  inscription :  it  looks  large  and  far  away, 
like  some  sign  from  heaven ;  this  it  is  that  gives 
the  fete  its  sacred,  Mussulman  character.  Still 
farther  away,  over  the  vague,  dark  expanse  of 
water,  which  must  be  the  Bosphorus,  are  httle 
shining  objects,  very  odd-looking,  —  these  are 
ships,  illumined  even  to  the  tops  of  the  masts.  .  .  . 
Directly  below,  the  splendid  army,  ever  mo- 
tionless and  thoughtful,  follows  in  spirit  the 
prayers  which  are  being  chanted  in  the  luminous 
mosque  opposite.  One  would  think  the  soul  of 
Islam  were  at  this  moment  concentrated  in  the 
white  sanctuary.  Ah  !  those  chants  whose  \dbra- 
tions  fill  this  cupola,  monotonous  as  magic  in- 


128  Const-antinople  in  1890 

cantations,  so  rare  and  beauteous  are  their  melo- 
dies !  One  could  scarcely  be  sure  whether  they 
were  the  voices  of  children  or  of  angels  !  There 
was  something  very  Oriental  about  the  music, 
the  notes  were  maintained  without  fatigue  or 
strain  on  the  top  notes,  with  the  unchanging 
freshness  of  tone  of  a  hautbois.  The  chanting 
was  very  prolonged,  returning  again  and  again 
to  the  first  few  bars  in  tender,  soothing  strains, 
expressing  with  infinite  sadness  the  vanity  of 
himian  Ufe  and  the  shrinking  dread  of  Nature's 
mysteries. 

Now,  the  Sultan  is  on  the  point  of  leaving  the 
mosque.  A  slight  movement  of  attention  is 
noticed  in  the  troops.  A  landau,  drawn  by  erect, 
prancing  horses,  draws  up  in  front  of  the  marble 
steps  of  the  mosque,  on  which  red  carpets  have 
been  laid ;  at  the  same  time,  over  a  score  of 
men-servants  troop  up,  each  carrying  one  of 
those  enormous  white  silk  lanterns,  a  yard  high, 
which,  from  time  immemorial,  etiquette  has  in- 
sisted on  having  to  accompany  the  nocturnal 
visits  of  the  Caliphs.     The  choir  beneath  the 


Constantinople  in  1890  129 

cupola  is  now  chanting  more  loudly  and  at  a 
quicker  tempo,  in  supreme  exaltation  as  the  end 
of  the  service  is  reached. 

Allah  !  Here  comes  the  Sultan  !  The  palaces 
and  gardens,  the  very  heavens  glow  with  intenser 
light.  The  cannons  roar  like  thunder  in  a 
storm,  and  the  prostrate  troops  exclaim  together 
as  with  one  voice  :  "Allah  !  Allah  !"  in  loud  res- 
onant accents.  .  .  . 

The  landau  bears  away  the  Sovereign,  and  the 
hundred  yards  which  separate  the  mosque  from 
the  gates  of  the  palace  are  crossed  at  a  gallop ; 
other  magnificent  carriages  follow  close  behind, 
in  which  are  seated  veiled  princesses  who  have 
attended  the  service :  the  attendants  rush  to 
and  fro,  waving  their  great  white  lanterns,  and 
with  a  clashing  of  steel  the  troops  close  behind 
the  cortege.     It  is  all  over.  .  .  . 

Following  an  aide-de-camp,  I  proceed  through 
salons  and  along  passages,  with  their  gilded  and 
light-toned  walls  and  columns.  Here,  at  Yildiz, 
there  is  considerable  moderation  in  adornment, 
a  truce  to  luxury,  as  it  were :  the  Sovereign,  who 
possesses  fairy  palaces  in  the  most  enchanting 


130  Constantinople  in  1890 

spots  along  the  Bosphorus,  prefers,  for  purposes 
of  quiet  work,  the  relative  simplicity  of  this 
mansion,  which  he  had  erected  in  close  prox- 
imity to  a  large  shady  park. 

And  now  I  find  myself  in  a  kind  of  immense 
court  anteroom,  of  equal  simplicity,  whose  sole 
luxurious  element  consists  of  magnificent  car- 
pets that  deaden  every  sound.  This  evening  it 
is  filled  with  generals,  aides-de-camp  of  every 
grade,  in  full  uniform,  some  wearing  long  straight 
tunics  and  red  fezzes ;  others,  Oriental  dolmans 
with  large,  waving  sleeves  and  black  Astrachan 
caps.  They  look  very  martial,  and  here,  on  the 
very  threshold  of  the  Imperial  apartments,  their 
effect  is  more  imposing  than  the  most  magnifi- 
cent uniforms  would  be.  Amongst  them,  I 
notice  the  heroic  figure  of  Osman  le  Ghazi,  the 
stern  defender  of  Plevna.  All  are  standing,  and 
they  speak  in  low  accents :  a  fact  that  seems  to 
indicate  the  proximity  of  the  Sovereign. 

In  effect.  His  Majesty  the  Sultan  is  seated 
alone  on  a  sofa,  in  a  small  side  salon,  to  which 
I  am  conducted  by  the  grand  master  of  the  cere- 
monies.    He  is  wearing  a  general's  uniform,  over 


Constantinople  in  1890  131 

which  is  thrown  a  brown  cloth  military  capote; 
there  is  nothing  in  outward  appearance  to  dis- 
tinguish him  from  the  officers  of  his  army. 

It  is  long  since  I  last  had  the  honor  of  seeing 
His  Majesty,  and  as  I  make  my  court  bow,  there 
suddenly  comes  into  my  mind  the  somewhat 
sad  memory  of  our  previous  irregular  meeting, 
of  which,  naturally,  the  Sovereign  cannot  have 
retained  the  faintest  remembrance.  .  .  . 

This  was  nearly  fifteen  years  ago,  on  the  Bos- 
phorus,  the  very  morning  of  his  accession  to 
the  throne  —  one  of  those  fine  sunny  days  which, 
imaged  in  the  background  of  the  past,  seem 
more  luminous  than  those  we  now  experience. 
The  large  Imperial  caiques,  with  golden  prows, 
had  come  to  take  him  from  the  headland  of  the 
Old  Seraglio  to  the  palace  of  Dolma-Bagtche. 
It  was  very  early,  few  barques  were  to  be  seen, 
nor  was  there  any  guard  round  the  cortege.  Ig- 
norant of  his  identity,  I  was  gliding  past,  when, 
as  the  result  of  a  momentary  blunder  on  the  part 
of  our  boatmen,  my  caique  ran  into  his.  There- 
upon the  young  prince,  who  was  within  a  few 
hours  to  become  the  supreme  Caliph,  had  me- 


132  Constantinople  in  1890 

chanically  cast  upon  me  one  of  those  absent- 
minded  glances  which  mean  nothing,  his  dark 
eyes  seeming  to  peer  anxiously  into  the 
future.  .  .  . 

Alas !  That  future  has  become  the  past  of 
to-day,  and  the  memory  of  this  image  makes  me 
suddenly  conscious  of  the  abyss  of  time  which 
separates  both  of  us  from  that  sunny  morning 
in  early  youth.  .  .  . 

The  Sultan  always  receives  his  guests  with  a 
quite  natural  graciousness  and  the  most  charm- 
ing good-will.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  few  min- 
utes that  evening,  during  which  I  had  the  honour 
to  converse  with  the  Sovereign,  —  in  the  some- 
what strange,  calm,  small,  soberly  furnished, 
ordinary  looking  little  salon  whose  entrance  was 
so  proudly  guarded  by  these  low-voiced  mili- 
tary chiefs,  and  whose  windows  opened  upon 
the  distant  uproar  of  a  city  en  fete,  beneath 
a  sky  alight  with  Bengal  fires  and  the  glow  of  a 
conflagration. 

Certain  that  I  should  be  understood  and  par- 
doned in  the  most  charming  and  indulgent  man- 
ner possible,  I  foimd  courage  to  say  how  greatly 


Constantinople  in  1890  133 

I  regretted  seeing  the  old  things  disappear,  and 
mighty  Istambul  undergo  such  a  transformation. 

My  complaint,  however,  from  the  artistic 
point  of  view,  went  no  further;  what  I  should 
have  liked  to  add,  I,  a  chance  visitor,  cannot 
permit  myself  to  say  in  conversation  with  a 
sovereign,  even  when  favoured  with  a  most 
gracious  audience. 

What  will  become  of  this  poor  though  mighty 
Turkey,  so  proud  in  the  times  when  a  nation's 
power  was  founded  on  faith,  sublime  ideals,  and 
a  noble  personal  courage?  What  will  she  do  when 
inexorably  drawn  into  the  yawning  vortex  of 
modern  vulgarity,  and  brought  into  contact  with 
the  thousand  petty  and  mean,  practical,  and 
utilitarian  aims  and  objects  which  once  she 
scorned  so  whole-heartedly?  Above  all,  what 
will  become  of  her  when  her  sons  lose  their 
faith  ? 

Had  I  given  expression  to  my  profound  attach- 
ment to  this  brave  nation,  I  should  have  been 
tempted  to  show  something  of  the  sorrow  and 
anxiety  I  felt,  —  to  try  to  find  out  if  the  Caliph 
has   caught   a   glimpse,   beyond    this   frightful 


134  Constantinople  in  1890 

transition  period,  of  the  mysterious  dawning  of 
a  new  era,  the  signs  and  portents  of  which  my 
less  practised  eyes  cannot  yet  distinguish. 

Thursday,  15  May,  1890. 

Morning,  a  bright  early  dawn. 

I  awake,  not  at  Pera,  in  my  own  room,  but  in 
the  heart  of  Istambul  in  one  of  those  small  inns 
where  one  sleeps,  without  undressing,  on  a  white 
mattress  spread  over  the  floor. 

As  I  left  the  Imperial  palace  very  late  last 
night,  I  called  at  my  hotel  to  leave  my  gala 
suit,  and  hurried  here,  to  mingle  once  more  in 
the  open-air  festivities  taking  place  on  the  other 
bank  of  the  Golden  Horn.  Then,  as  the  last 
few  flickering  lights  of  the  Ramazan  were  dying 
out,  I  entered  the  nearest  place  I  could  find  for 
a  night's  sleep. 

No  clock  strikes  the  hour  in  this  part  of  the 
city ;  consequently,  on  awaking,  I  was  anxious 
to  find  out  if  I  had  slept  too  long,  for  an  aide- 
de-camp  of  His  Majesty  was  to  call  for  me  at 
my  official  address,  to  afford  me  an  opportunity 
of  visiting  the  Sultans'  treasures. 


Constantinople  in  1890  135 

On  leaving  the  inn,  life  seemed  all  enchant- 
ment; even  to  breathe  was  a  delight.  The 
quiet  little  old  streets  light  up  joyously  in  the 
eternal  sunshine,  as  though  to  prepare  for  some 
gay  festival  that  is  never  to  end.  Oh  !  How 
rare  and  pure  the  life-giving  freshness  of  this 
air  and  light  on  a  May  morning  in  the 
Orient!  .  .  . 

Reaching  the  Golden  Horn,  I  soon  find  myself 
on  the  square,  dotted  with  ancient  plane-trees, 
overlooked  on  one  side  by  the  lofty  grey  mosque 
of  the  Valideh,  with  its  minarets  and  arabesque 
denticulations.  On  the  other  sides  there  are 
vine  bowers,  small  cafes,  barbers'  and  hdbouche 
dealers'  shops ;  everything  very  ancient  and 
Oriental-looking,  to  all  appearance  quite  indige- 
nous to  the  place  and  such  as  one  might  find  in 
Ispahan  or  Bagdad. 

On  this  May  morning,  it  is  even  more  delight- 
ful on  the  square  than  in  the  streets.  The  rising 
sun  gilds  the  mosque,  and  the  fresh-looking 
plane-trees,  from  underneath ;  in  the  atmosphere 
hovers  a  white  mist,  the  virginal  veil  of  the  day, 


136  Constantinople  in  1890 

so  to  speak.  The  small  Turkish  cafes  begin  to 
open,  and  two  or  three  men  are  already  being 
shaved  by  the  barbers,  beneath  the  trees,  in 
the  open  air. 

Evidently  it  must  be  quite  early,  and  I  have 
time  to  loiter  here  before  returning  to  Pera. 
I  sit  down  in  the  shelter  of  a  vine-arbour  and 
order  a  cafe  and  a  few  little  warm  bonbons  such 
as  are  here  sold  in  the  mornings  to  the  worthy 
citizens.  I  enjoy  it  all  far  better  than  I  should 
the  most  refined  breakfast  imaginable.  One 
seems  to  feel  rising  within  oneself  that  resur- 
gence of  life  so  manifest  all  around,  giving  a 
youthful  aspect  to  everything. 

A  couple  of  hours  later,  about  eight  o'clock, 
a  carriage  again  takes  me  back  to  Istambul,  in 
a  very  different  costume,  and  accompanied  by 
one  of  His  Majesty's  aides-de-camp.  We  reach 
a  solemn,  deserted  part  of  the  city,  with  grass 
growing  between  the  paving-stones  in  the  streets, 
and  here  the  coachman  stops  in  front  of  a  grim- 
looking  enclosure,  like  that  of  a  fortress  of  the 
Middle  Ages. 

These  walls  shut  in  a  small  corner  of  the  earth 


Constantinople  iu  1890  137 

absolutely  unique  of  its  kind,  an  extreme  pro- 
jection of  Oriental  Europe,  a  promontory  stretch- 
ing out  towards  the  neighbouring  continent  of 
Asia,  and  a  building  which,  for  centuries,  was 
the  residence  of  the  Caliphs :  a  spot  of  incom- 
parable splendour.  Along  with  the  holy  sub- 
urb of  Eyub,  it  is  the  most  exquisite  thing  in 
Constantinople:  the  "Old  Seraglio,"  the  name 
alone  of  which  summons  up  a  whole  world 
of  dreams.  .  .  . 

A  citadel  door  in  the  wall  affords  us  access, 
whereupon  the  delicious  melancholy  of  the  things 
within  is  revealed;  the  dead  past  taking  us  to 
itself  and  enveloping  us  in  its  shroud. 

At  first,  all  is  silence  and  shadow.  The  empty 
solitary  courtyards  with  neglected  grass  sprout- 
ing between  the  flags  and  centennial  trees  rais- 
ing aloft  their  leafy  heads,  contemporaries  of 
the  glorious  Sultans  of  the  past ;  dark  cypresses 
rising  upwards  like  towers,  plane-trees  that  have 
assumed  unwonted  forms,  hollow  and  eaten 
away  by  the  ravages  of  time,  bending  forward 
hke  old  men  and  held  together  only  by  huge 
strips  of  bark. 


138  Constantinople  in  1890 

Then  come  galleries  and  colonnades,  in  ancient 
Turkish  style;  the  verandah,  still  painted  with 
odd-looking  frescoes,  beneath  which  Suleiman 
the  Magnificent  deigned  to  receive  the  ambas- 
sadors of  the  kings  of  Europe.  .  .  .  Fortunately 
this  spot  is  but  seldom  accessible  to  the  profane, 
it  has  not  yet  become  a  vulgar  resort  for  tourists. 
Beyond  its  lofty  walls  it  retains  somewhat  of 
its  former  mysterious  peace,  and  bears  the  im- 
press of  the  gloom  and  sadness  of  past  splendour. 

Passing  through  the  first  few  courtyards,  on 
our  right  we  [look  upon  impenetrable  gardens, 
whence  are  seen  to  emerge,  from  between  the 
clumps  of  cypresses,  old  kiosks  with  closed  win- 
dows :  these  are  the  residences  of  Imperial 
widows  and  aged  princesses  who  come  to  this 
austere  retreat  to  end  their  days  in  full  view  of 
one  of  the  most  glorious  sights  the  world  affords. 

The  farthest  part  of  this  walled-in  spot  which 
we  have  now  reached  is  exposed  to  the  sun  and 
blazing  with  hght,  it  is  the  extreme  point  of  the 
Old  SeragHo  and  of  Europe.  This  is  a  soHtary 
esplanade,  very  high  and  white,  dominating  the 
blue  expanse  of  sea,  with  azure  in  the  distance. 


Constantinople  in  1890  139 

The  light  morning  sun  floods  with  its  rays  these 
far-away  deeps,  where  towns,  islands,  and  moun- 
tains are  daintily  outlined  above  the  still  sur- 
face of  the  Sea  of  Marmora, 

All  around  us  are  ancient  constructions,  also 
white,  containing  the  rarest  and  most  precious 
possessions  of  Turkey. 

First,  there  is  the  kiosk,  which  none  but  the 
faithful  are  permitted  to  enter  and  where  the 
mantle  of  the  Prophet  is  preserved  in  a  cover, 
embroidered  with  precious  stones. 

Then  comes  the  kiosk  of  Bagdad,  the  interior 
of  which  is  wholly  adorned  with  articles  of  an- 
cient Persian  porcelain  which  are  priceless  now- 
adays :  the  branches  of  red  flowers  were  made 
of  coral  —  Hquefied  by  a  process  now  lost  — 
which  was  spread  over  the  porcelain  like  a 
picture. 

Afterwards,  we  came  to  the  Imperial  Treasury, 
also  very  white  beneath  its  layers  of  lime.  It 
is  barred  and  railed  in  Hke  a  prison,  though  its 
iron  doors  are  shortly  to  open  wide  before  me. 

Finally  we  reach  a  palace  —  uninhabited, 
though  kept  in  perfect  order  —  in   which  we 


I40  Constantinople  in  1890 

are  about  to  sit  and  rest.  White  marble  steps 
bring  us  to  the  ground-floor  salons  which  had  to 
be  furnished  about  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century  in  the  European  fashion  of  that  period. 
This  is  the  Louis  XV  style  to  which  a  scarcely 
perceptible  blend  of  Oriental  fancy  imparts  a 
peculiar  charm.  .  .  .  There  are  white  and  gold- 
coloxired  wainscotings,  old-cherry  or  old-Ulac 
flowered  silks,  all  of  Hght  tints,  softened  by 
time.  Large  Chinese  and  Sevres  vases ;  very  few 
objects,  though  every  one  ancient  and  rare.  .  .  . 
Considerable  space,  air,  and  hght ;  a  quiet  sym- 
metry in  the  arrangement  of  things  —  which 
one  instinctively  feels  are  never  removed  from 
their  places. 

Here,  in  a  kind  of  simiptuous  solitude,  seated 
in  arm-chairs  of  a  dehcately  pale  pink  colour,  in 
front  of  the  wide-open  windows,  we  obtain,  from 
this  the  extreme  promontory  of  Europe,  that 
glorious  view  which  charmed  the  Sultans  of  by- 
gone ages.  On  the  left,  far  beneath  our  feet, 
the  Bosphorus  rolls  on,  dotted  with  steamers 
and  caiques;  the  white  marble  quays  and  the 
Imperial  residences  find  inverted  reflections  of 


Constantinople  in  1890  141 

themselves  in  long  pale  lines;  and  lines  of 
mosques  and  palaces  rise  tier  upon  tier,  in  mag- 
nificent array,  along  its  banks.  Opposite  is  Asia, 
the  last  remnant  of  morning  mist  giving  it  a 
bluish  tint;  Scutari,  with  its  domes  and  min- 
arets, its  immense  cemetery  and  forest  of  gloomy- 
looking  cypresses.  To  the  right  are  the  endless 
stretches  of  the  Sea  of  Marmora :  distant  steam- 
ers almost  lost  in  this  diaphanous  blue,  hke 
Httle  grey  silhouettes  followed  by  long  lines  of 
smoke.  .  .  . 

How  well  chosen  the  place  was  for  dominating 
and  overlooking  this  land  of  Turkey,  in  its 
proud  position  on  two  of  the  world's  conti- 
nents !  And  now  how  peaceful,  how  sadly  splen- 
did this  complete  isolation  from  the  modern 
life  of  the  world,  this  profound  silence  expres- 
sive of  abandonment  beneath  the  light,  dismal- 
looking  sun  !  .  .  . 

When  the  keeper  of  the  Treasury  —  an  old 
white-bearded  man  —  makes  ready  to  open  the 
iron  door  with  his  great  keys,  a  score  of  sworn 
individuals  Une  the  entrance,  ten  on  each  side 
—  such  are  the  demands  of  etiquette.     We  pass 


142  Constantinople  in  1890 

along  the  double  file  and  enter  the  rather  dark 
rooms,  followed  by  the  rest. 

No  Ah-Baba's  cave  ever  contained  such 
wealth !  Here,  for  eight  centuries,  have  been 
stored  the  rarest  of  precious  stones:  the  most 
astonishing  marvels  of  art.  Gradually,  as  our 
eyes  grow  accustomed  to  the  dim  light  within 
after  the  glare  of  the  sim,  we  see  diamonds 
sparkHng  all  around.  Priceless  objects,  of  un- 
known antiquity,  are  classed  in  order  on  shelf 
after  shelf,  along  with  weapons  of  every  period, 
from  Genghis  Khan  to  Mahmud :  all  of  silver 
or  gold  and  sparkling  with  gems.  There  are 
collections  of  gold  caskets  of  every  style  and  size, 
some  covered  with  rubies,  others  with  diamonds, 
and  others  again  with  sapphires,  some  of  the 
emeralds  being  as  large  as  an  ostrich  egg.  Coffee 
services,  buires,  and  ewers,  or  jugs,  of  exquisite 
antique  patterns,  come  next.  Then  we  see  the 
most  dainty  saddles  and  harness,  state-switches 
for  horses,  ornamented  with  silver  and  gold 
brocade,  embroidered  over  and  over  again  with 
flower-shaped  precious  stones;  extremely  wide 
thrones,  made  for  sitting  in  with  crossed  legs: 


Constantinople  in  1890  143 

one  all  adorned  with  rubies  and  fine  pearls, 
another  entirely  covered  with  emeralds  and  giv- 
ing a  green  reflection  as  though  a  stream  of  sea- 
water  were  pouring  over  it. 

In  the  last  room  of  all,  behind  glass  windows, 
an  immovable,  terrifying  company  awaits  us: 
twenty-eight  death  puppets,  of  the  size  of  hu- 
man beings,  standing  erect,  in  military  file, 
and  with  elbows  touching.  They  all  wear  that 
high  pear-shaped  turban  which  has  been  out  of 
fashion  for  over  a  century  and  is  never  seen 
nowadays  except  on  the  catafalques  of  de- 
fimct  persons  of  importance,  in  the  dim  light  of 
fimeral  kiosks  or  else  engraved  on  tombstones: 
to  such  an  extent  is  this  the  case  that  it  is  in- 
evitably connected,  in  my  mind,  with  the  idea 
of  death.  Up  to  the  beginning  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  whenever  a  Sultan  died,  there 
was  brought  here  a  puppet,  dressed  in  the  gala 
garments  of  the  deceased  sovereign ;  marvellous 
weapons  were  fixed  in  its  girdle,  and  on  its  head 
were  set  his  turban  and  a  magnificent  aigrette  of 
precious  stones.  Thus  it  remained  for  all  time, 
covered  with  this  eternally  buried  wealth.     The 


144  Constantinople  in  1890 

twenty-eight  Sultans,  who  have  succeeded  one 
another  from  the  capture  of  Constantinople  to 
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  have,  in  this 
room,  their  standing  simulacra,  in  parade  imi- 
form ;  by  slow  degrees  the  sombre  though  sump- 
tuous assembly  has  grown,  the  new  puppets  com- 
ing one  by  one  to  take  their  place  in  a  hne  with 
the  old  ones  which  have  been  awaiting  them  for 
hundreds  of  years,  certain  that  they  would  come 
at  last.  And  all  these  phantoms  are  touching 
one  another,  figures  that  have  reigned  at  cen- 
turies of  intervals,  though  remorseless  time  has 
now  brought  them  together  in  one  and  the  same 
pitiable  state  of  non-existence. 

Their  long  robes  are  made  of  the  strangest 
brocades,  of  large  mysterious  patterns,  though 
time  has  destroyed  their  colour ;  priceless  daggers, 
with  wide  pommels  consisting  of  a  single  precious 
stone,  in  spite  of  every  care,  grow  rusty  in  the 
silk  of  the  girdles ;  it  would  even  seem  as  though 
the  enormous  diamonds  composing  the  aigrettes 
had,  after  the  lapse  of  centuries,  come  to  glow 
with  a  yellow  and  worn-out  sort  of  brilliancy. 

How  sad  to  behold  is  all  this  imheard  of  luxury, 


Constantinople  in  1890  145 

with  its  thin  covering  of  dust.  Of  fabulous  mag- 
nificence are  the  puppets  with  their  \oity  coiffures, 
objects  of  so  much  human  covetousness,  guarded 
there  behind  double  iron  doors,  aHke  useless 
and  dangerous.  They  witness  the  passing  of 
years  and  centuries,  kingdoms  and  revolutions, 
in  the  same  immobility  and  silence ;  during  the 
day,  feeble  rays  of  light  finding  their  way  through 
the  old  barred  windows,  and  in  utter  darkness 
after  sunset.  .  .  .  Each  has  its  name,  written 
on  a  faded  label,  Hke  any  ordinary  word,  — 
names  still  famous  and  in  bygone  days  terrible 
to  hear :  Amurath  the  Conqueror,  Suleiman  the 
Magnificent,  Mohammed  and  Mahmud.  ...  I 
do  not  think  there  is  anything  that  gives  me  a 
more  awe-inspiring  lesson  on  human  vanity  and 
frailty  than  do  these  puppets.  .  .  . 

Close  by  the  Old  Seraglio  awaits  a  large 
caique  from  the  palace,  with  eight  pairs  of  oars. 
Soon  we  are  lying  stretched  on  cushions,  for  this 
method  of  sailing  in  a  half  reclining  posture, 
one's  eyes  almost  on  a  level  with  the  water  over 
which  one  is  gliding,  is  peculiar  to  Turkey. 


146  Constantinople  in  1890 

All  the  rowers  wear  the  traditional  white 
silk  gauze  shirt,  unbuttoned  so  as  to  expose 
their  sun-burnt  chests  to  the  fresh  air :  impassive 
and  swarthy,  they  have  the  appearance  of  bronze 
figures  with  ivory-white  teeth. 

The  peaceful  surface  of  the  Bosphorus  glitters 
beneath  the  ardent  beams  of  the  sun.  Out  in 
the  open  we  pass  steamers,  the  smoke  of  various 
craft,  of  everything  that  obstructs  and  defiles 
the  sea  opposite  the  Golden  Horn. 

In  two  or  three  places,  we  land  on  quays  of 
immaculately  white  marble  in  front  of  deserted 
palaces  with  their  white  and  gilded  iron  gates. 
This  snowy  whiteness  alongside  the  blue  water 
constitutes  the  great  and  unique  charm  of  the 
Sultan's  various  residences. 

There  is  much  splendour  and  magnificence 
within  these  uninhabited  palaces,  whose  doors 
are  flung  open  by  their  keepers  :  forests  of  multi- 
coloured columns,  a  Utter  of  candelabra  and 
girandoles,  extremely  complicated  ceiHngs  in 
Oriental  style,  brocades  worked  with  gold  wire 
and  Brusa  silks.    But  not  a  soul  in  these  state- 


Constantinople  in  1890  147 

rooms,  amid  all  this  up-to-date  and  carefully 
preserved  luxury.  The  Sovereign  and  his  court 
no  longer  even  visit  them. 

It  is  about  noon  when  we  return  to  the  palace 
of  Yildiz  after  this  rapid  visit  to  the  other  Im- 
perial residences. 

At  Yildiz  one  receives  an  impression  of  ut- 
most calm,  peace,  and  silence.  It  is  still  the  Ra- 
mazan,  a  time  of  seclusion  and  prayer,  and  in  the 
dwelling  of  His  Majesty  the  Sultan,  even  more 
than  elsewhere,  fasting  is  strictly  practised  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  this  religious  month,  nor  must 
it  be  broken  before  sunset.  Luncheon  is  served 
for  myself  alone,  since  I  am  not  bound  by  the 
Mohammedan  law ;  but  I  feel  quite  ashamed  to 
find  myself  seated  at  table  when  no  one  else  in 
the  whole  palace  is  eating :  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life,  luncheon  seems  to  me  little  more  than 
an  act  of  impropriety  or  indelicacy  imported 
from  the  Occident. 

Besides,  I  have  something  far  better  to  do. 
On  the  gilt  pages  of  a  writing-pad  brought  by 
an  interpreter,  I  am  permitted  to  transfer  some 
of  my  impressions  to  the  Sovereign,  whose  near 


148  Constantinople  in  1890 

presence  one  divines,  though  to-day  he  is  not 
to  be  seen.  And  I  admire  the  fact  that  His 
Majesty,  amid  the  thousand  engrossing  occupa- 
tions of  a  monarch's  Kfe,  should  interest  him- 
self in  literature  and  art. 

All  is  silent ;  through  the  open  windows  pour 
floods  of  light;  sunbeams  play  on  the  white 
walls  and  light  brocade  of  the  furniture.  In  the 
foreground  we  have  flower  gardens,  whilst  far 
in  the  distance  are  those  charming  vistas  of  sea 
and  continent  which  may  be  obtained  from  every 
part  of  this  terrace-built  city,  the  projecting 
balcony  of  Europe  herself ! 

The  Imperial  mosque  is  also  close  by,  with  its 
dainty,  slender  dome.  Smoking  the  most  ex- 
quisite cigarettes,  I  chat  about  last  night's 
religious  music  with  His  Excellency  the  Grand 
Vizier  —  who,  when  he  pleases,  can  be  the  most 
courteous  and  refined  Frenchman  imaginable. 

"Draw  nearer  to  the  window,"  he  says,  "and 
listen  to  the  wonderful  voice  you  will  hear  chant- 
ing the  prayers,  in  a  moment." 

In  effect,  from  out  of  the  exterior  peace  and 
silence  suddenly  is  heard  a  delightfully  sonorous 


Constantinople  in  1890  149 

voice.  It  has  the  thrilling  sound  of  a  hautbois 
combined  with  the  celestial  purity  of  a  church 
organ ;  as  in  dream  or  sleep,  the  voice  sends  forth 
the  Mussulman  prayer  to  the  four  corners  of  the 
blue  heavens  with  a  sort  of  inexpressive  uncon- 
cern. .  .  .  Then  there  comes  over  me  an  in- 
tense impression  of  all  that  Islam  stands  for, 
thrilling  me  to  the  very  depths  of  my  nature, 
an  impression  of  infinite  melancholy,  at  once 
soothing  and  torturing  and  which  I  have  never 
been  able  clearly  to  define.  I  had  gradually 
been  losing  it  in  this  gay,  light  salon,  which 
might  well  have  been  anywhere  else,  in  a  French 
chateau,  for  instance. 

Even  more  beautiful  than  this  golden  voice, 
now  thrilling  with  all  the  power  of  youth,  but 
destined  soon  to  pass  away,  is  that  almost  im- 
mortal chant  which,  for  centuries  past,  is  heard 
five  times  each  day  in  every  town  and  village  of 
Turkey.  It  symbolises  an  entire  religion,  a 
proud  and  tranquil  mysticism ;  it  is  an  appeal- 
ing plaint  raised  on  high  by  our  Oriental  brothers, 
who  are  better  able  than  ourselves  to  keep  alive 
the  old  consoling  dreams,  who  still  go  forward, 


150  Constantinople  in  1890 

with  closed  eyes,  that  they  may  not  see  the 
abyss  of  dust  and  ashes  yawning  before  them, 
and  are  Ivdled  to  sleep  in  glorious  mirages  of 
bliss.  ...  So  long  as  this  prayer  causes  men 
to  bow  their  heads  around  the  mosques,  Turkey 
will  never  lack  the  same  valiant  soldiers,  ever 
careless  of  death.  .  .  . 


SERPENT   CHARMERS 


SERPENT  CHARMERS 

jT  was  spring,  the  twilight  of  a  May 
day,  in  T'etuan,  the  white  city. 
Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard.  Over 
the  terraces  and  the  little  old  domes 
and  houses  spread  the  endless  white  stretch  of 
lime;  everywhere  was  this  mysterious  white 
shroud.  Men  slowly  passed  along,  clad  in  gar- 
ments of  the  most  exquisite  tints,  in  dreamy 
attitude;  their  dark  and  splendid  oval  eyes 
did  not  appear  to  behold  the  things  of  earth. 
The  golden  sunset  cast  a  pink  tint  over  all, 
and  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  old  and 
almost  shapeless  houses,  the  lime  gradually  as- 
sumed a  blue  colour  somewhat  like  snow  in  the 
shade.  There  were  passers-by  dressed  in  golden 
yellow,  pale  green,  and  salmon  colour,  others  in 
blue  and  pink,  others  who  had  chosen  rarer  and 
indescribable  tints,  all  majestic  and  grave,  with 
bronzed  faces  and  intensely  black  eyes.  Here 
153 


1 54  Serpent  Charmers 

and  there  grew  tufts  of  fresh  spring  plants, 
poppies,  buttercups,  mignonette,  springing  up 
all  about,  on  the  blue-white  old  walls.  But  it 
was  the  dead,  ghastly  white  of  the  Ume  that 
dominated  all;  it  seemed  to  give  light  and  to 
refract  it,  sending  it  back  in  softer  beams  to 
the  immense  golden  sky  which  now  appeared  all 
refulgent  with  the  glow.  Nowhere  could  be 
seen  prominent  shadows  and  outlines  or  sombre 
colours ;  the  slowly  moving  living  beings  caused 
none  but  strangely  clear  and  distinct  tints,  as 
pure  and  ethereal  as  one  sees  in  heavenly  visions, 
to  pass  over  this  imiversal  whiteness ;  everything 
was  fused  and  melted  in  tranquil  light;  those 
great,  dreamy,  human  eyes  were  the  only  things 
that  were  black.  .  .  . 

A  short  distance  away  were  heard  the  first 
faint  notes  of  a  flute,  so  sad  and  plaintive,  and 
the  muffled  tambourine  of  the  serpent  charmers. 
Then  the  men,  who  had  before  been  walking 
aimlessly  in  this  white  labyrinth,  gradually 
directed  their  steps  to  the  same  spot,  in  response 
to  the  appeal  of  the  music. 

The  charmers  had  placed  themselves  in  the 


Serpent   Charmers  155 

centre  of  the  public  square,  in  the  highest  part 
of  the  town.  In  the  blue  distance  could  be  seen 
a  series  of  white  lines,  almost  devoid  of  outline ; 
these  were  terraces.  There  was  also  visible  a 
succession  of  apparent  snowdrifts,  and  these  con- 
sisted of  T'etuan  itself,  half  buried  in  the  May 
evening  mist. 

The  men  with  their  flowing  robes  formed  a 
circle  around  the  charmers.  The  latter,  naked 
and  tawny-hued,  sang  and  danced  like  their 
own  serpents,  twisting  and  twining  their  supple 
busts  to  the  music  of  their  own  flutes,  the  while 
shaking  and  tossing  their  curly  locks.  The 
whole  scene  was  beautiful,  from  the  sky  above 
down  to  the  humblest  bronze-armed  camel- 
driver,  who  looked  on  with  vacant  gaze,  seeing 
nothing  of  what  was  taking  place. 

And  there  I  was  in  their  midst,  taking  no 
account  of  time,  charmed  like  them,  and,  as  it 
happened,  resting  a  little  amongst  these  motion- 
less beings,  heedless  of  the  passing  hours.  And 
these  sad-toned  flutes  and  tambourines  —  along 
with  the  whole  of  this  Africa  —  filled  me  with 
their  soothing  charm,  with  the  same  magic  as 


156  Serpent  Charmers 

in    bygone    days,    in    my    long-past    youthful 
years.  .  .  . 

This  land  is  indeed  the  one  that  still  sings  for 
me  in  sweetest  strains  the  universal  song  of 
death. 


A   FEW  FORGOTTEN   PAGES   OF 
"  MADAME   CHRYSANTHEME  " 


A   FEW  FORGOTTEN   PAGES    OF   "MA- 
DAME CHRYSANTHEME  " 

Nagasaki,  Sunday,  i6th  September,  1885. 

HE  previous  evening  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  to  go  with  Yves  to  the  tem- 
ple of   "Taki-no-Kanon,"  a  place 
of  pilgrimage,  at  a  distance  of  seven 
or  eight  leagues,  out  in  the  woods. 

At  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  in  already 
blazing  sunshine,  we  started  in  jinrikishas,  taking 
a  relay  of  chosen  runners,  three  for  each  of  us, 
and  also  some  fans. 

We  speedily  left  Nagasaki  behind,  rolling  at 
a  great  pace  up  the  green  mountain,  ascending 
all  the  time.  At  first,  we  went  alongside  a 
wide,  deep  torrent,  from  the  bed  of  which  there 
rose  huge  blocks  of  granite,  like  menhirs,  some 
of  them  natural,  others  erected  by  human  agency, 
and  roughly  carved  to  resemble  gods ;  there  they 
stood,  amid  the  verdure  and  the  raging  stream, 

IS9 


i6o    Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Chrysantheme 

like  rocks  or  grey  phantoms,  with  stumps  of 
arms  and  rough-hewn  faces.  The  Japanese  can- 
not leave  nature  natural;  even  in  its  wildest 
aspects,  they  must  give  it  a  certain  delicate  fas- 
tidious refinement,  or  else  impress  on  it  a  grimace 
or  some  horrible  nightmare  aspect.  We  roU  on 
very  quickly,  jolted  from  one  side  to  the  other ; 
our  runners  show  no  signs  of  fatigue,  even  up 
steep  ascents,  as  we  continue  our  course  in  wind- 
ing zigzags. 

The  road  is  as  smooth  as  our  French  roads, 
—  and  the  presence  of  telegraph  wires  causes 
us  no  little  astonishment  amid  these  strange, 
unknown  trees. 

About  noon,  the  sun  now  being  hotter  than 
ever,  we  halt  at  a  tea-house,  —  a  hospitable 
structure  by  the  roadside,  in  a  cool,  shady  comer 
of  the  moimtain.  There  is  a  murmuring  spring 
right  in  the  house,  seeming  to  issue,  as  though  by 
miracle,  from  a  bamboo  vase,  then  it  falls  into 
a  basin,  in  whose  clear  waters  we  see  eggs,  fruit, 
and  flowers.  We  partake  of  rose-coloured  water- 
melons that  have  been  kept  cool  in  the  foun- 
tain, and  taste  Kke  sherbet. 


Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Chrysantheme    i6i 

We  are  off  again,  and  have  now  reached  the 
top  of  the  mountain-chain  which  surrounds 
Nagasaki  Hke  a  wall.  Soon  we  shall  descry  the 
country  beyond.  For  the  moment,  we  are 
traversing  a  lofty  region,  where  everything  is 
green,  adorably  green.  The  strident  music  of 
the  grasshopper  is  heard  on  all  sides;  wide- 
winged  butterflies  flit  about  in  the  grass. 

All  the  same,  one  feels  that  this  is  not  the 
eternal  warm,  dull  repose  of  a  tropical  country. 
It  is  the  glory  of  summer,  the  summer  of  tem- 
perate climes;  the  more  delicate  verdure  of 
annual  plants  that  begin  to  sprout  in  spring; 
the  litter  of  long,  thin  weeds  and  herbs  which 
will  die  in  autumn ;  the  more  ephemeral  charm 
of  a  season  like  our  own  —  the  delicious  languor 
of  our  European  coimtries  on  a  hot  September 
afternoon.  These  forests,  suspended,  as  it  were, 
to  the  hill  slopes,  might  in  the  distance  be  taken 
for  those  of  Europe ;  one  would  say  they  were  our 
own  oaks,  beeches,  and  chestnut- trees.  And 
these  small  hamlets,  with  thatched  or  grey  tiled 
roofs,  appearing  here  and  there,  dotted  about  the 
valleys,  do  not  seem  out  of  their  element ;   they 


i62    Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Chrysantheme 

too  look  like  those  of  our  Western  lands.  There 
is  nothing  definite  that  is  indicative  of  Japan, 
—  these  spots  actually  remind  me  of  certain 
sunny  sites  among  the  Alps  or  in  Savoy. 

But  on  a  close  examination  the  plants  fill 
one  with  wonder,  for  they  are  almost  all  im- 
known ;  the  flitting  butterflies  are  too  large  and 
too  odd-looking;  the  very  odours  are  different. 
Then,  too,  in  these  distant  villages,  one  looks  for 
a  church  or  steeple,  such  as  one  might  expect  to 
find  in  Europe,  but  not  a  trace  of  such  a  building 
is  anywhere  to  be  seen.  At  the  comers  of  the 
roads  are  neither  crosses  nor  calvaries.  Strange 
gods  who  have  no  connection  with  those  of  the 
Occident  keep  watch  over  the  peaceful  and  silent 
slumber  of  this  land.  .  .  . 

On  reaching  the  highest  peak  of  the  first  wall 
of  mountains,  we  see  opening  out  before  us  on 
the  other  side  an  immense  plain  like  a  green 
steppe,  smooth  as  velvet,  and  in  the  distance  a 
bay  gently  laved  by  tiny  ripples. 

Along  winding  paths  we  shall  have  to  descend 
into  this  plain,  our  men  inform  us,  and  proceed 


Forgotten  Pages  oj  Madame  Chrysantheme    163 

right  across  it;  we  must  likewise  traverse  those 
hills  that  shut  in  the  plain  and  form  that  far- 
off  horizon. 

This  is  somewhat  startling,  for  we  had  never 
imagined  the  temple  so  far  distant.  .  .  .  How 
will  it  be  possible  to  return  to-night  ? 

Reaching  the  foot  of  the  rapid  winding  path, 
we  come  to  a  halt  in  a  wood  of  very  lofty  trees ; 
in  the  shade  stands  an  old  granite  temple,  sullen 
and  morose,  dedicated  to  the  god  of  rice.  Seated 
on  the  altar  are  white  foxes,  in  hieratical  posture, 
showing  their  teeth  with  an  evil  snarl.  Clear 
little  streamlets  babble  beneath  the  trees,  whose 
leaves  are  black  and  motionless. 

A  band  of  carriers,  men  and  women,  have  also 
called  a  halt  in  this  deHghtful  spot,  a  very  noisy 
and  childish  company,  clad  in  wretched  blue- 
cotton  rags.  Amongst  them  are  some  very 
pretty  mousmes  with  sturdy  limbs  and  bronzed 
complexions;  they,  too,  are  carriers  by  trade. 
They  form  a  company  of  fifty  at  least,  a  human 
caravan,  carrying  bundles  of  goods  and  merchan- 
dise in  baskets,  at  the  end  of  long  staves.  Many 
similar  caravans  are  also  to  be  met  with  on  the 


164    Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Chrysantheme 

roads  of  this  island  Kiushu,  where  neither  horses 
nor  carriages  are  seen,  nor  even  railways,  as  in 
Nippon,  the  large  civilised  island  of  Japan. 

After  a  rest,  our  djinns  now  roll  us  across  the 
plain  at  a  very  rapid  pace.  They  remove  such 
garments  as  prove  troublesome,  one  by  one,  and 
deposit  them,  all  moist  with  sweat,  beneath  our 
feet  in  the  small  cars. 

We  are  crossing  an  immense  rice  plantation 
beneath  the  full  blaze  of  the  midday  sun  in  a 
cloudless  sky.  This  plantation  is  perfectly 
level,  of  a  soft,  vernal  colour,  irrigated  by 
thousands  of  invisible  streams  of  running  water  ; 
all  around  us  is  a  monotonous  void,  like  the 
sky  above  our  heads,  and  as  green  as  the  latter 
is  blue. 

The  road  is  still  a  good  one,  and  these  amazing 
telegraph  lines  continue  all  the  way,  supported 
by  posts,  as  in  Europe.  With  this  girdle  of  moun- 
tains in  the  distance,  slightly  veiled  behind  the 
haze  of  sunlight,  one  might  imagine  oneself  in 
certain  parts  of  Europe :  on  the  smooth  pasture- 
land  of  the  plains  of  Lombardy,  with  the  Alps 


Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Chrysantheme     165 

on  the  horizon.  The  only  difference  is  that  it  is 
hotter  here. 

Our  third  halt  is  at  the  end  of  the  steppe  on 
the  brink  of  a  torrent.  We  take  our  seats  in  a 
tea-house  at  the  entrance  to  a  large  village. 

To  refresh  themselves,  our  djinns  are  served 
with  plates  of  rice,  cooked  in  water.  This  they 
eat  with  the  help  of  sticks,  and  with  quite  femi- 
nine grace.  The  people  troop  around ;  mousmes, 
in  considerable  numbers,  inspect  us  with  an  air 
of  polite  and  smiling  curiosity.  Very  soon,  all 
the  babies  in  the  place  are  also  gathered  together 
to  look  at  us. 

There  is  one  of  these  yellow  babies  who  fills 
us  with  pity,  a  dropsical  child,  with  a  pretty, 
gentle  face.  With  both  hands  he  holds  his  naked 
Uttle  paunch,  all  swollen,  and  which  will  certainly 
cause  his  speedy  death. 

We  give  him  a  few  copper  coins,  and  receive 
in  return  a  smile  of  joy  and  a  look  of  deep  grati- 
tude from  this  poor  little  thing  who  will  never 
see  us  again  and  will  surely  before  long  be 
gathered  into  Japanese  earth. 

The  huts  of  this  village  are  like  those  at  Naga- 


1 66     Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Chrysantheme 

saki,  built  of  wood  and  paper,  with  similar  mats, 
all  extremely  clean.  .  .  .  Along  the  main  street 
are  shops  in  which  are  sold  various  amusing  Httle 
things,  along  with  numbers  of  plates,  cups,  and 
tea-pots;  but  instead  of  the  coarse  pottery 
found  in  the  villages  at  home,  everything  here 
is  of  fine  porcelain,  ornamented  with  pretty  and 
delicate  designs. 

We  cross  another  range  of  hills,  on  a  lower 
level,  and  reach  another  plain.  Here,  too,  we 
find  rice  plantations,  along  with  ditches  full  of 
reeds  and  lotus-blooms.  Our  djinns,  who  have 
come  to  the  end  of  their  progressive  unrobing, 
are  now  quite  nude.  Perspiration  is  streaming 
down  their  tawny  skins.  One  of  my  men,  who 
comes  from  the  province  of  Owari,  renowned 
for  its  tattooers,  has  his  body  literally  covered 
with  designs  of  the  most  refined  though  imcouth 
nature.  On  his  shoulders,  of  a  uniformly  blue 
colour,  is  a  garland  of  peonies  of  dazzHng  pink, 
exquisitely  designed.  A  lady,  in  an  ostentatious 
costume,  occupies  the  middle  of  his  back ;  the 
embroidered  garments  of  this  odd-looking  person, 
descend  along  his  loins  down  to  his  sinewy  thighs. 


Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Chrysantheme     167 

By  the  side  of  another  torrent  our  djinns 
come  to  a  halt ;  they  are  a  little  out  of  breath, 
so  they  beg  us  to  dismount.  The  road  is  no 
longer  good  for  carriages;  we  have  to  ford  the 
stream  on  stones  and  continue  on  foot  along 
paths  which  will  soon  bury  themselves  in  moun- 
tain and  forests. 

One  of  them  stays  behind  to  take  charge  of  the 
jinrikishas ;  the  rest  accompany  us  as  guides. 

We  soon  find  ourselves  climbing  amongst  rocks 
and  roots  and  ferns  along  the  tiny  forest  paths, 
beneath  the  dense  shade  of  the  trees.  Here  and 
there  we  pass  an  old  granite  idol,  shapeless, 
wasted  away  by  time,  and  moss-covered,  remind- 
ing us  that  we  are  approaching  a  sanctuary.  .  .  . 

...  I  feel  quite  incapable  of  expressing  that 
poignant,  imexpected  feeHng  which  memory  sud- 
denly brings  back  to  me  along  these  shady  paths. 
This  verdant  night,  with  the  huge  trees  overhead, 
these  ferns  all  too  large,  this  odour  of  mosses, 
and  in  front  of  me  these  copper-coloured  men : 
everything  suddenly  wafts  me  through  time  and 
space  back  to  Oceania,  to  the  great  woods  of 
Fatou-hiva,  with  which  I  was  once  so  familiar. 


1 68    Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Ckrysantheme 

....  I  have  wandered  in  different  countries 
throughout  the  world  since  my  departure  from 
Tahiti  —  the  isle  of  delight  —  and  have  frequently 
experienced  these  painful  memories,  coming 
upon  me  like  a  lightning  flash,  and  immediately 
vanishing,  leaving  behind  nothing  but  a  vague 
feeling  of  anguish,  equally  fleeting.  .  .  . 

The  tumult,  however,  aroused  within  me  at 
the  memory  of  that  indescribable  charm  pos- 
sessed by  Pol3mesia,  is  locaHsed  in  the  profound- 
est  recesses  of  my  being,  perhaps  previous  to 
my  present  existence.  When  I  attempt  to 
speak  of  it,  I  feel  I  am  entering  upon  an  order  of 
things,  misty  and  dark,  scarcely  comprehensible 
even  by  myself.  .  .  . 

Farther  on,  in  a  higher  region  of  the  mountain, 
we  plunge  into  a  forest  of  cryptomerias,  or  Japan 
cedars.  The  foUage  is  thin  and  scanty,  it  is 
dark-coloured;  the  trees  are  so  crowded  to- 
gether and  high,  so  slender  and  upright,  that 
they  might  almost  be  taken  for  a  field  of  gigan- 
tic reeds.  An  ice-cold  stream  flows  beneath  the 
forest  shade,  roaring  and  ratthng  along  in  a 
bed  of  grey  stones. 


Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Chrysantheme    169 

Finally,  there  appear  steps  in  front  of  us; 
then  a  portico,  all  shapeless  from  the  ravages 
of  time,  leading  into  a  kind  of  court  shut  in 
between  rocks  and  covered  with  straggling  weeds. 
In  this  court,  monoHthic  gods,  with  towering 
head-gear  and  faces  spotted  with  moss,  are 
seated  in  rows,  as  though  holding  council  to- 
gether. 

Afterwards  comes  a  second  portico,  made  of 
cedar,  odd-cornered  and  complicated  in  form. 
To  right  and  left,  each  in  his  iron-barred  cage, 
are  the  two  inevitable  guardians  of  every  temple 
entrance :  the  blue  and  the  red  monster,  still 
seeming  to  make  feeble  attempts  to  threaten  with 
their  old  worm-eaten  arms,  to  terrify  with 
decrepit  gestures  of  fury.  They  are  pierced  all 
over  with  prayers  on  papier  mdche,  left  by  pass- 
ing pilgrims ;  they  have  them  on  the  body  and 
face  and  in  their  very  eyes,  a  horrible  sight. 

The  second  court,  still  more  shut  in,  presents 
an  aspect  of  ruin  and  neglect,  like  the  former. 
It  is  a  gloomy  solitary  kind  of  yard,  containing 
granite  gods  and  tombs ;  immediately  on  enter- 
ing there  is  heard  the  splashing  of  an  invisible 


lyo    Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Chrysantheme 

cascade,  the  gushing  and  roaring  of  subterra- 
nean water,  as  it  were.  The  faithful  visit  this 
temple  only  at  certain  times  of  the  year,  the 
result  being  that  the  grass  has  plenty  of  time 
to  invade  the  stone  flags.  There  also  grow 
long  slender  cycads,  raising  aloft,  as  high  as  they 
can,  towards  the  sun,  their  tufts  of  green  plumes. 
At  the  farther  end  stands  the  temple,  with 
vertical  rocks  overhanging,  covered  with  lianas 
and  roots,  all  entangled  together. 

In  China,  Anam,  and  Japan,  it  is  the  custom 
to  conceal  temples  in  all  kinds  of  places :  in  the 
depths  of  a  forest,  in  obscure  deep  valleys,  or 
even  in  a  dark  greenish-looking  cavern,  or  else 
to  perch  them  boldly  on  the  soUtary  peaks  of  the 
loftiest  mountains.  The  inhabitants  of  farthest 
Asia  think  that  the  gods  delight  in  unexpected 
and  rare  sites. 

The  entrance  to  the  sanctuary  is  closed,  but 
through  the  bars  of  the  door  there  can  be  seen 
shining  inside  a  number  of  gilded  idols  quietly 
seated  on  old  red-lacquered  seats. 

There   is   nothing   very   special   about    this 


Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Chrysantheme    171 

pagoda  in  itself,  it  resembles  any  other  one 
would  meet  out  in  the  country,  in  Japan.  What 
is  strange  is  the  position  it  occupies;  almost 
immediately  behind,  the  valley  comes  to  a  sud- 
den termination,  shut  in  by  a  precipitous  moun- 
tain, and  into  the  recess  between  its  walls  and  the 
steep  sides  around  falls  the  cascade  I  have  just 
heard,  with  mighty  eternal  crash.  There  is  a 
kind  of  sinister-looking  basin,  an  infernal  abyss, 
where  the  wheat  sheaf  jet,  falHng  from  on  high 
into  the  void,  hisses  and  rages,  all  white  with 
foam,  between  the  black  rocks. 

Our  runners  plunge  eagerly  into  this  ice-cold 
bath;  they  dive  and  swim  about,  uttering 
little  childUke  cries,  as  they  sport  beneath 
the  enormous  douche.  Thereupon,  we  also, 
unable  to  resist  the  temptation,  fling  off  our 
garments  and  follow  their  example. 

Whilst  resting  afterwards  on  the  stones  by 
the  edge,  deUghtfuUy  refreshed  by  the  cold 
water,  we  receive  an  unexpected  visit :  the 
bonze  and  his  wife,  —  for  all  the  world  resem- 
bling two  poor  old  apes,  —  who  issue  from  the 


172    Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Chrysantheme 

temple  by  a  little  side  door,  and  have  come  to 
pay  us  their  respects. 

At  our  request,  they  prepare  for  us  a  sort  of 
doll's  dimier,  in  their  own  way;  this  consists 
of  rice  and  scarcely  perceptible  fishes,  caught 
in  the  cascade.  This  repast  is  served  in  dainty 
blue  cups,  on  pretty  lacquered  trays.  We 
share  it  with  our  djinns,  all  sitting  together  in 
front  of  the  rushing  stream,  amid  the  mist  and 
spray. 

"What  a  distance  we  are  from  the  old  coun- 
try!" exclaimed  Yves  suddenly,  in  dreamy 
tones. 

Yes,  indeed ;  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  that ; 
and  the  remark  at  first  appears  as  self-evident 
and  profound  as  those  made  by  La  Palisse  in 
his  day.  I  understand,  however,  why  he  gave 
expression  to  this  sentiment,  for  the  same  thought 
had  entered  my  mind.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  in  this  spot  we  are  a  great  deal  farther 
away  from  France  than  we  were  this  morning  on 
board  the  Triomphante.  Whilst  one  is  on  his 
own  ship,  that  travelling  house  he  has  brought 
with  him,  he  is  surrounded  by  the  faces  of  his 


Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Chrysantheme    173 

own  countrymen,  by  all  the  customs  and  habits 
of  his  land,  and  this  deludes  him.  Even  in  the 
large  towns,  —  Nagasaki,  for  instance,  —  where 
there  are  steamers,  sailors,  and  all  the  stir  of  life, 
one  has  no  very  clear  notion  of  these  great  dis- 
tances. No,  it  is  rather  in  the  calm  of  some 
such  isolated  spot  as  this,  especially  when  the 
sun  is  going  down  as  it  is  just  now,  that  one 
feels  oneself  a  frightful  distance  away  from  home. 

Scarcely  an  hour's  rest  before  it  is  time  to 
start  on  our  return  journey.  The  djinns  have 
renewed  their  strength  as  a  result  of  the  cold 
bath,  and  they  speed  along  faster  than  ever, 
leaping  and  bounding  like  goats  and  shaking 
us  considerably  in  our  tiny  cars. 

Back  again  over  the  same  plains  and  rice 
plantations,  across  the  same  streams  and  villages, 
more  dull  and  gloomy  looking,  when  seen  in  the 
twilight.  Thousands  of  grey  crabs,  that  have 
left  their  holes  to  enjoy  the  evening  freshness, 
flee  before  us  as  we  advance. 

At  the  foot  of  the  last  mountain  range  sep- 


174    Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Chrysantheme 

arating  us  from  Nagasaki,  we  light  our  lanterns, 
for  night  has  now  overtaken  us. 

Our  runners,  still  nude  and  indefatigable, 
speed  rapidly  along,  shouting  and  calling  aloud 
to  encourage  one  another. 

It  is  a  peaceful,  warm  night,  with  innumerable 
shining  stars  above,  and  scarcely  perceptible 
tiny  lights  below :  glow-worms  hidden  in  the 
grass,  and  fire-flies  fluttering  about  amongst 
the  bamboos  like  sparks.  Naturally,  the  grass- 
hoppers join  in  a  mighty  nocturnal  chorus,  and 
the  noise  grows  louder  and  louder,  the  higher 
we  rise  into  the  woodland  regions  around  Naga- 
saki. All  these  masses  of  green,  these  appar- 
ently suspended  woods  which  were  of  such  a 
dazzling  colour  during  the  day,  now  form  patches 
of  intense  black ;  some  hanging  over  our  heads, 
the  rest  lost  in  the  depths  beneath  our  feet. 

We  frequently  come  across  groups  of  travel- 
lers :  modest  wayfarers  on  foot  or  people  of  rank 
or  importance  in  jinrikishas;  all  are  carrying, 
at  the  end  of  sticks,  road  lanterns  consisting  of 
great  white  or  red  balloons,  daubed  over  with 
flowers  and  birds.     The  fact  is  that  the  road  on 


Forgotten  Pages  oj  Madame  Chrysantheme    175 

which  we  are  serves  as  the  chief  means  of  com- 
munication with  the  interior  of  the  island  of 
Kiushu,  and  even  at  nighttime  is  much  fre- 
quented ;  both  above  and  below,  along  the  dark, 
winding  paths,  we  see  many  of  these  multi- 
coloured lights  quivering  and  flickering  through 
the  branches  of  the  trees. 

About  eleven  o'clock,  we  chance  to  make 
another  halt,  high  on  the  mountain,  at  a  tea- 
house :  a  dismal  old  inn,  doubtless  used  by 
labourers  and  carriers.  The  people  of  the  place, 
though  half  asleep,  relight  their  tiny  lamps 
and  stoves  to  make  tea  for  us. 

This  they  serve  under  the  verandah  in  the 
fresh  air,  the  stars  shining  in  the  blue-black 
expanse  of  sky. 

Yves  again  begins  to  give  us  those  childlike 
impressions  of  "being  so  far  from  home,"  which 
came  over  him  a  few  hours  ago:  "One  feels 
quite  lost  here,"  he  remarks.  Then  he  re- 
flects that  the  sun,  which  has  passed  from  view 
a  few  minutes  ago,  has  just  risen  on  Tremoule- 
en-Toulven,  and  that  to-day  happens  to  be  the 


176    Forgotten  Pages  of  Madame  Chrysantheme 

second  Sunday  in  September,  the  anniversary 
of  the  great  pardon  at  which  we  were  both  pres- 
ent last  year,  listening  to  the  cornemuse  in  the 
oak  forests.  .  .  .  What  changes  have  taken 
place  since  that  pardon,  a  year  ago.  .  .  . 

It  is  after  midnight  when  we  return  to  Naga- 
saki ;  but  as  there  is  a  reHgious  festival  at  the  pa- 
goda of  Osueva,  the  tea-houses  are  still  crowded 
and  the  roads  lit. 

At  home,  Chrysantheme  and  Oyouki  await 
us,  in  dozing  attitude. 

In  the  blue  basin,  out  on  Madame  Prune's 
roof,  we  place  a  handful  of  rare  ferns,  gathered 
away  in  the  forest,  and  then  sink  into  deep  sleep 
beneath  our  gauze  mosquito-nets. 


JAPANESE  WOMEN   IN   1890 


JAPANESE  WOMEN  IN  1890 

THOUGHT  I  had  said  my  last 
word  on  everything  Japanese,  — 
and  now  I  find  I  have  been  pre- 
vailed upon  to  promise  a  few 
words  on  the  subject  of  that  mysterious  little 
ornamental  bibelot,  the  Japanese  woman.  So 
once  again  I  surround  myself  with  every- 
thing capable  of  reviving  my  memories  of  that 
delightful  land ;  memories  that  have  not  yet 
faded  away  into  the  dim  past  to  such  an  extent 
that  I  cannot  regain  the  illusion  of  actual 
reality :  robes  fragrant  with  Japanese  perfumes, 
vases,  fans,  pictures,  and  portraits.  The  latter 
more  especially,  innumerable  portraits  scattered 
all  about  my  work-table,  smiUng  faces  of  mous- 
mes  both  known  and  unknown  to  me ;  small  eyes 
drawn  up  to  the  temples,  little  cat's  eyes.  .  .  . 
And  their  attitudes  and  the  dresses  they  wore ! 
.  .  .  All  the  roguish  archness,  all  that  strange 
179 


i8o  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

studied  grace  seen  in  the  folds  of  flowing  tunics 
or  sheltering  beneath  the  extravagant  motley 
tints  of  sunshades.  And  the  illusion  after  which 
I  am  seeking  comes  over  me '  so  completely, 
that  there  seems  to  issue  from  these  open  albums 
a  gentle  murmur  of  low  voices;  in  the  silence 
around,  I  hear  the  ripple  of  light  laughter,  as 
it  were.  .  .  . 

I  do  not  believe  that  a  European  can  write 
anything  absolutely  correct  or  exact  about  the 
Japanese  woman,  if  he  insists  on  investigating 
beneath  the  surface  of  things.  Only  a  Japanese 
could  do  this,  or,  perhaps,  a  la  rigueur,  a 
Chinese,  for  between  these  two  nations,  though 
so  different  from  each  other,  there  exist  the  most 
undeniable  affinities  of  soul.  Still,  even  if  his 
study  of  his  own  womankind  went  just  a  little 
too  deep,  it  would  lose  all  meaning  for  us ;  it 
would  teach  us  nothing,  for  a  certain  aspect 
would  elude  our  grasp,  and  that  very  aspect 
would  be  the  one  of  profoundest  significance. 
The  yellow  race  and  our  own  are  the  two  oppo- 
site poles  of  the  human  species ;   there  exists  the 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  181 

widest  difference  even  in  our  ways  of  perceiving 
external  objects,  whereas  our  ideas  on  things 
in  their  essence  are  frequently  the  reverse  of 
each  other.  We  can  never  fully  penetrate  the 
mind  of  a  Japanese  or  a  Chinese ;  there  sud- 
denly comes  a  time  when,  \vith  mingled  feel- 
ings of  terror  and  mystery,  we  find  ourselves 
checked  by  intellectual  barriers  beyond  which 
we  cannot  pass ;  these  nations  feel  and  think 
the  very  opposite  from  ourselves. 

Consequently  what  I  am  about  to  say  now 
will  be  very  superficial,  and  from  the  outset  I 
prefer  to  state  frankly  that  it  would  be  impos- 
sible for  my  description  to  be  anything  else.  .  .  . 

Very  plain-looking  are  these  poor  little 
Japanese  women  !  I  vdW.  say  this  from  the  be- 
ginning, in  all  its  brutality,  for  later  on  I  shall 
mitigate  this  impression  by  speaking  of  their 
mincing  daintiness  and  graceful  drollery,  of 
their  adorable  little  hands,  and,  finally,  of 
poudre  de  Hz,  of  the  pink  and  gold  spread  on  the 
lips,  and  of  artifices  of  every  kind. 

Scarcely  any  eyes  at  all  —  nothing  worth 
mentioning;  two  thin,  slanting,  divergent  slits, 


i82  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

deep  sunk,  in  which  roll  a  pair  of  cunning  or 
wheedling  eyeballs,  —  such  as  may  be  seen 
between  the  half-open  eyelids  of  a  tabby,  which 
cannot  endure  the  full  glare  of  daylight. 

Above  these  little  curbed  eyes  —  high, 
high  above  them  —  appear  the  eyebrows,  deli- 
cate as  the  lines  of  an  artist's  brush,  and  not 
curled  in  the  slightest,  or  parallel  to  the  eyes,  — 
to  which  they  form  so  bad  an  accompaniment, 
—  but  each  in  a  straight  line,  quite  in  contra- 
distinction from  the  conventional  European 
representation  of   a  Japanese   woman. 

In  my  opinion,  the  entire  peculiarity  and 
oddity  about  these  little  faces  lies  in  this  ar- 
rangement of  the  eyes,  which  never  varies,  and 
also  in  the  form  of  the  cheek,  which  grows  as 
round  as  that  of  a  doll;  in  their  paintings, 
moreover,  the  artists  of  the  country  are  always 
careful  to  reproduce  these  characteristic  signs 
of  their  race,  even  going  so  far  as  to  exaggerate 
them  to  the  most  improbable  dimensions. 

The  other  features  change  to  a  far  greater 
extent;  first,  in  individuals  themselves,  but 
more    especially    in    the   various   social   ranks. 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  183 

Among  the  masses,  the  lips  remain  large,  the 
nose  flat  and  short ;  in  the  nobility,  the  mouth 
becomes  thinner  and  the  nose  long  and  sharp, 
sometimes  even  bending  into  a  dainty  aquiline 
shape. 

There  is  no  country  in  the  world  in  which 
feminine  types  form  such  distinct  contrasts 
between  the  different  castes.  Dark  peasant 
women  as  bronzed  as  Hindus,  with  tiny,  dainty, 
well-dressed  figures,  their  limbs  plump  and 
muscular  beneath  their  eternal  blue  cotton 
dresses.  Languishing  diminutive  townswomen, 
white  and  pallid  as  unhealthy  Europeans,  with 
that  something  furrowed  and  worn  away,  so  to 
speak,  in  the  very  flesh  itself,  which  is  indicative 
of  too  old  a  race.  And  all  the  artisan  women  in 
the  large  towns  seem  as  though  they  have  been 
hereditarily  worn  out,  used  up  even  before 
birth  by  too  long  and  continuous  labour,  their 
minds  ever  directed  on  the  most  minute  details 
of  things;  one  might  say  that  on  their  tiny 
frail  forms  weighs  all  the  toil  and  fatigue  of 
having  produced,  century  after  century,  those 
millions    of    bibelots,    those    innumerable    little 


184  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

works  that  demand  inexhaustible  patience, 
with  which  Japan  is  overflowing.  Lastly,  in 
the  princesses,  aristocratic  refinement,  going 
back  into  the  remote  past,  has  come  to  form 
astonishing  httle  artificial  persons,  with  the 
hands  and  bodies  of  children,  and  whose  painted 
faces,  more  pink  and  white  than  a  fresh  bonbon, 
give  no  indication  of  their  age ;  in  their  smile 
there  is  a  distant  expression  such  as  one  sees  in 
the  smile  of  an  old  idol,  whilst  the  reserved  look 
in  their  eyes  may  be  described  as  both  youthful 
and  dead  at  the  same  time. 

Then,  again,  high  above  all  other  Japanese 
women,  hovered  the  invisible  Empress  like  a 
goddess,  even  quite  recently.  The  sovereign, 
however,  has  gradually  descended  from  her 
empyrean;  nowadays  she  shows  herself,  re- 
ceives visitors,  speaks,  and  even  lunches  — 
though  only  her  thin  Hps  appear  to  move.  She 
has  abandoned  her  magnificent  camails,  adorned 
with  strange  coats  of  arms,  her  wide  idol  coiffure 
and  huge  fans ;  and,  alas  !  she  orders  her  corsets, 
dresses,  and  hats  from  Paris  or  London. 


Japanese  Wotnen  in  1890  185 

On  one  of  the  rare  and  solemn  occasions  on 
which  a  few  privileged  individuals  were  admitted 
into  her  presence,  I  had  the  honour  of  seeing 
her  in  her  gardens.  She  was  ideally  charming, 
passing  like  a  fairy  to  and  fro  amid  her  flower- 
beds, filled  with  drooping  autumn  blooms,  and 
then  taking  her  seat  beneath  the  dais  of  violet 
crepon  (the  Imperial  colour),  in  all  the  stately 
rigidity  of  her  multicoloured  robes,  varied  as 
the  plumage  of  a  humming-bird.  The  deHght- 
fully  odd  show  and  display  with  which  she  still 
surrounded  herself  invested  her  with  all  the 
charm  of  some  unreal  being.  On  her  painted 
lips  was  a  forced  smile,  vague  and  disdainful. 
Her  delicate  powdered  face  wore  an  inscrutable 
expression;  in  spite  of  her  gracious  welcome, 
we  felt  that  our  presence  offended  her,  and  that 
it  was  nothing  but  the  changed  modem  customs 
which  compelled  her,  the  sacred  Empress,  once 
invisible  and  unapproachable,  as  a  religious 
myth,  to  tolerate  us ! 

All  this  is  now  at  an  end :  the  wonderful 
dresses  that  have  remained  unchanged  in  form 
and  style  for  hundreds  of  years,  the  lovely  gor- 


i86  Japanese  Wofnen  in  1890 

geous  fans  are  now  relegated  for  ever  to  ward- 
robes and  museums.  The  modern  levelling 
process  has  suddenly  descended  upon  the 
Mikado's  court,  which  had  hitherto  been  more 
sacred  than  a  cloister,  and  had  retained,  from 
time  immemorial,  its  imchanging  elegance  and 
costumes,  its  rites  and  ceremonies. 

The  word  of  command  has  been  given  from 
above;  an  edict  of  the  Emperor  has  ordained 
that  the  ladies  of  the  palace  shall  dress  like  their 
sisters  in  Europe;  in  feverish  haste,  models 
and  sempstresses,  silks  and  hats,  have  been  sent 
for.  The  first  attempts  made  to  wear  all  these 
travesties  must  have  taken  place  in  private, 
perhaps  accompanied  with  regrets  and  tears, 
who  knows,  though  more  probably  with  jesting 
and  laughter.  Then  foreigners  were  invited  to 
come  and  see  them;  garden  parties,  dances,  and 
concerts  were  organised.  The  Japanese  ladies 
who  had  had  the  opportunity  of  travelling  in 
Europe  in  embassies  set  the  tone  to  this  astonish- 
ing comedy,  so  quickly  adopted.  The  first  few 
balls  —  European  style  —  given  in  Tokio  were 
extremely  clever  feats  of  mimicry;    there  were 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  187 

present  young  ladies  dressed  all  in  white  muslin, 
with  gloves  reaching  above  the  elbow.  They 
were  seated  on  chairs,  and  assumed  mincing, 
affected  manners,  as  they  toyed  with  their 
programmes.  Then  they  danced  polkas  and 
waltzes  in  tolerably  good  time,  to  the  tune  of 
operetta  music,  notwithstanding  the  enormous 
difficulties  all  our  unknown  European  rhythms 
and  measures  must  have  had  for  them.  Wines, 
chocolates,  and  ices  were  passed  round,  and 
dainty  little  hands  took  from  the  trays,  with  the 
most  charming  grace,  these  refreshments,  which 
had  before  never  even  been  tasted.  Then  there 
were  "cotillon  rounds,"  supper,  and  a  certain 
amount  of  discreet  flirting. 

All  this  servile  imitation,  amusing  enough  to 
passing  strangers,  really  points,  at  bottom,  to  a 
want  of  taste  in  this  people;  it  even  indicates 
an  utter  lack  of  national  dignity ;  no  European 
race  would  ever  consent  to  throw  overboard 
in  this  fashion,  at  a  minute's  notice,  its  age- 
long traditions  and  customs,  even  in  obedience 
to  the  formal  commands  of  an  Emperor. 

Thank  Heaven,  the  new  feminine  masquerade 


i88  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

is  still  restricted  to  a  very  small  circle :  to  none 
but  the  Court  and  the  official  world  at  Tokio. 
All  these  Httle  persons,  princesses,  duchesses, 
or  marchionesses,  —  the  old  Japanese  titles  of 
nobihty  have  also  been  changed  into  their 
European  equivalents  !  —  who  almost  succeeded 
in  being  charming  in  their  sumptuous  attire  and 
finery  of  bygone  ages,  are  now  frankly  ugly  in 
these  new  dresses,  which  but  accentuate  in  our 
eyes  their  excessively  affected  figures,  Asiatic  flat- 
ness of  profile,  and  oblique  vision.  For  the  most 
part,  they  still  retain  an  air  of  distinction ;  though 
absurdly  dressed,  odd  and  ridiculous  frights,  they 
are  scarcely  ever  common-looking.  Beneath  the 
gaucherie  of  the  new  customs  with  which  they 
have  scarcely  made  acquaintance  so  far,  beneath 
the  new  attitudes  —  acquired  with  so  much  diffi- 
culty—  imposed  by  corset  and  whalebone  busk, 
a  certain  aristocratic  refinement  still  persists, 
though,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  that  is  all  they 
have  left  to  constitute  their  charm. 

It  is  in  this  mad  and  outrageous  transition 
period  that  the  grande  dame  of  Japan  appears 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  189 

before  us.  The  world  of  princesses,  with  their 
scarce  visible,  dead-looking  little  eyes,  their 
spreading  coiffures  pierced  with  hair-pins  of  the 
most  extravagant  size,  —  this  world  which,  up 
to  recent  years,  had  disdained  to  be  seen  by 
Occidental  eyes,  suddenly  lies  unfolded  before 
our  gaze.  By  some  unexplained  change,  a  world 
which  seemed  to  have  become  mummified  in 
ancient  rites  and  customs  has  in  a  day  shaken 
off  its  mysterious  immobility.  Still,  it  is  under 
a  somewhat  disconcerting  aspect  that  we  see 
these  women  dress  like  the  most  modem  of  our 
own  race,  and,  with  infinite  grace,  receive  their 
visitors  in  imitation  European  salons.  Nor  must 
the  fact  be  lost  sight  of  that  all  this  is  artificial 
and  on  the  surface,  arranged  for  our  special 
benefit;  we  are  altogether  ignorant  of  what  is 
taking  place  behind  those  controlled  counte- 
nances ;  consequently,  there  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  hasten  to  smile  and  regard  as  insignifi- 
cant these  singular,  flat-profiled,  doll-like  faces. 
After  this  mystifying  performance,  they  cer- 
tainly leave  their  dreadfully  ugly  gilt  arm- 
chairs, their  new  suites  of  rooms  in  the  worst 


iQO  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

possible  Occidental  taste,  and  —  who  knows  — 
perhaps  dressing  themselves  in  the  gorgeous  em- 
blazoned robes  of  the  past,  they  go  and  squat 
down  on  their  white  mats  in  one  of  those  small, 
dismountable,  paper-framed  compartments,  of 
which  the  traditional  Japanese  house  is  com- 
posed ;  and  then,  looking  with  their  scarce  open 
eyes  at  the  dainty  gardens  in  the  distance,  made 
up  of  dwarf  trees,  small  sheets  of  water  and  tiny 
rocks,  they  become  themselves  once  again  —  and 
there  is  nothing  more  to  relate.  Then,  how  do 
they  live  in  the  coulisses  of  their  own  homes,  of 
what  do  they  dream  in  the  even  more  walled-in 
coulisses  of  their  own  minds?  This  is  the 
riddle  so  hard  to  guess.  In  these  palish  heads 
with  their  long,  straight  hair,  these  strange  sickly 
looking  heads,  are  little  brains,  fashioned  and 
moulded  just  the  reverse  of  ours  by  a  whole 
heredity  of  difference  in  culture;  they  contain 
ideas  imintelligible  to  us  regarding  religion, 
death,  and  the  mystery  of  life. 

Do  these  women  continue  to  write  exquisitely 
melancholy  poems  on  flowers  and  cool-flowing 
streams  and  forest  shades  as  in  the  good  old 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  191 

days?  Do  they,  maybe,  resemble  those  ances- 
tors of  theirs,  heroines  of  the  poems  and  legends 
of  chivalry,  who  held  such  lofty  ideals  of  honour 
and  love?  ...  I  cannot  answer,  though,  in 
my  opinion,  one  would  be  very  thoughtless  to 
judge  them  by  that  eternal  stupidly  simple  smile 
they  give  us ;  moreover,  I  have  often  caught  a 
most  intense  expression  on  these  women's  faces ; 
on  that  of  the  Empress,  for  instance,  on  two  or 
three  occasions,  I  remember  seeing  flashes  of 
interest  and  intelligence  appear ;  her  pretty  car- 
mine-painted lips  quivered,  and  her  little  aqui- 
line nose  became  more  pointed  than  ever. 

The  woman  comme  il  faut  who  has  not  yet 
become  Europeanized  may  still  be  found,  far 
from  Tokio  and  the  Court,  in  the  other  towns  of 
the  Empire.  She  has  not  given  up  her  old 
finery.  You  may  see  her  in  a  jinrikisha  or 
small  hand  carriage,  always  very  simply  dressed 
in  the  streets ;  she  wears,  one  over  the  other, 
three  or  four  plain,  sombre  or  neutral-tinted 
dresses,  of  fine  pale  silk.  In  the  middle  of  her 
back,  a  small  white  daintily  embroidered  rosette 


192  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

represents  her  family  coat  of  arms ;  her  hair, 
smoothed  and  combed  to  an  incredible  state  of 
perfection,  is  held  up  with  plain  tortoise-shell 
pins  devoid  of  gold  ornaments  or  precious  stones. 
When  she  grows  old,  and  strictly  conforms  to 
the  traditional  fashion,  her  eyebrows  are  shaved 
and  her  teeth  covered  over  with  a  coating  of 
black  lake.  She  is  of  a  more  retiring  disposition, 
more  difficult  to  tame,  than  the  ordinary  hour- 
geoise,  but  if  you  insist,  you  may  obtain  from  her 
a  charming  smile  or  a  bow,  accompanied  by  some 
poKte  commonplace  remark  or  other:  nothing 
more. 

And  after  all,  you  know  her  almost  as  well, 
after  this  simple  experience,  as  you  know  the 
rest,  the  fashionable  ladies  belonging  to  the 
newly  formed  strata  of  society,  with  whom  you 
may  have  danced  a  cotillon  or  a  Strauss  waltz 
at  a  State  ball.  Consequently,  if  you  are  asked 
to  describe  the  Japanese  grande  dame,  the  wisest 
course  is  to  declare  that,  so  far,  she  is  a  perfect 
enigma. 

The  bourgeoises,  the  women  who  belong  to 
the  trading  and  artisan  classes,  may  everywhere 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  193 

be  seen  without  difficulty;  intimacy  with  them 
is  so  speedily  acquired  that  an  attempt  may  be 
made  to  speak  of  them  at  greater  length,  even 
though  it  be  impossible  to  divine  their  inmost 
nature.  The  general  impression  I  have  re- 
tained of  these  thousands  of  little  creatures  one 
meets  with  everywhere  —  in  tea-house,  theatre, 
and  pagoda  —  is  an  absolute  lack  of  seriousness. 
It  is  impossible  for  me  to  refrain  from  an  in- 
voluntary smile  whenever  I  think  of  them. 

My  memory  recalls  crowds  of  amazing  Httle 
figures,  eager  and  excited,  somewhat  apelike, 
continually  on  the  move  and  bowing  to  every- 
body. They  are  surrounded  by  tiny  dolls' 
bibelots  in  diminutive  rooms,  the  paper  walls  of 
which  would  give  way  to  the  slightest  blow  of  a 
man's  fist.  Women  in  miniature,  at  once  child- 
ish and  oldish,  whose  excessive  grace  is  affected 
and  simpering  to  the  point  of  becoming  a  sheer 
grimace,  whilst  their  never  ceasing  laughter  — 
both  contagious  and  devoid  of  gaiety  —  is  as 
irresistible  as  a  tickling  sensation  and  in  the  long 
run  produces  the  same  provoking  lassitude. 
They  laugh  from  excessive  amiability  or  as  the 


194  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

result  of  acquired  habit ;  they  laugh  in  the  most 
solemn  and  grave  circumstances  of  life ;  they 
even  laugh  in  the  temples  or  at  a  funeral. 

Very  tiny  creatures  they  are,  living  amidst 
very  tiny  objects,  as  delicate  and  finical  as  them- 
selves. Their  household  utensils,  of  dainty  china- 
ware  or  thin  metal,  resemble  children's  toys; 
their  cups  and  tea-pots  are  quite  Liliputian,  and 
their  eternal  pipes  may  be  filled  with  a  mere 
pinch  of  finely  shredded  tobacco,  picked  up  with 
the  tips  of  their  elegant  Httle  fingers. 

Never  seated,  but  squatting  on  the  ground,  all 
day  long,  on  immaculate  white  mats,  they  per- 
form almost  all  the  actions  of  their  life  in  this 
unchanging  posture ;  their  little  dinners  are 
served  on  the  ground  in  microscopic  plates  and 
dishes  and  daintily  eaten  with  chopsticks ;  on 
the  ground  they  go  through  their  toilet  in  front 
of  ridiculously  small  mirrors,  behind  fragile- 
looking  screens  scarcely  large  enough  to  conceal 
them,  and  surrounded  by  a  litter  of  funny  little 
instruments,  tiny  pots,  and  powder-boxes;  on 
the  ground,  too,  they  work,  sew  and  embroider, 
play  on  their  long-necked  guitars,  dream  of  im- 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  195 

possibilities,  or  address  long  morning  and  evening 
prayers  to  their  inscrutable  gods. 

Needless  to  relate,  the  small  houses  in  which 
they  dwell  are  as  elaborate  and  finical  as  them- 
selves ;  they  are  almost  invariably  easy  to  manage, 
with  partitions  that  can  be  removed,  drawers 
and  compartments  of  all  shapes,  and  wonder- 
ful little  cupboards.  Everything  is  minutely 
clean,  even  in  the  houses  of  the  poorest ;  every- 
thing, also,  is  of  the  utmost  simplicity,  especially 
in  the  houses  of  the  wealthy.  The  ancestral 
altar  alone,  on  which  incense  burns,  is  sHghtly 
gilt  and  lacquered,  adorned,  like  a  pagoda,  with 
china  vases  and  lanterns;  everywhere  else  is 
intentional  bareness,  a  bareness  which  is  only 
the  more  complete  and  white,  the  more  elegant 
the  dwelling  happens  to  be.  Embroidered  hang- 
ings will  be  found  nowhere,  though  sometimes 
there  are  transparent  falHng  curtains,  composed 
of  stringed  pearls  and  reeds.  Nor  is  there  any 
more  furniture ;  the  usual  necessary  objects  and 
the  flower  vases  stand  either  on  the  ground  or 
on  small  lacquered  pedestals.  The  mistress  of 
the  house  considers  that  the  luxury  of  her  home 


196  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

consists  in  the  very  excess  of  that  virtue  of  clean- 
liness of  which  I  spoke  a  short  time  ago :  one 
of  the  undoubted  qualities  of  the  Japanese  as  a 
race.  It  is  a  universal  custom  to  remove  one's 
foot-gear  before  entering  a  house;  immaculate 
is  the  whiteness  of  the  mats,  on  which  no  one 
ever  steps  except  in  dainty  socks ;  immaculate, 
too,  the  whiteness  of  the  plain  paper  with  which 
walls  and  ceiling  are  covered.  The  very  wood- 
work is  white,  it  is  neither  painted  nor  varnished 
over;  its  only  ornament,  in  the  opinion  of  women 
with  real  claims  to  taste,  consists  of  its  scarcely 
perceptible  veinings  of  new  deal.  More  than 
one  fine  lady  have  I  seen  personally  superintend- 
ing her  comical  little  servants  as  they  soaped  and 
scrubbed  this  woodwork,  with  might  and  main, 
to  give  it  quite  a  fresh  appearance,  as  though  it 
had  just  left  the  carpenter's  bench. 

In  our  own  lands,  whenever  mention  is  made 
of  Japanese  women,  we  at  once  think  of  persons 
wearing  dazzling,  bright-coloured  dresses  such 
as  they  send  across  to  us ;  dresses  of  soft, 
indescribable  shades,  embroidered  with  long- 
stalked   flowers,  large   chimeras  and   fantastic 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  197 

birds.  Such  is  not  the  case:  dresses  of  this 
description  are  reserved  for  the  theatre,  or  are 
worn  by  a  certain  class  of  women,  who  live  in  a 
special  part  of  the  city,  and  of  whom  I  cannot 
speak  here.  Japanese  women  all  dress  in  dark 
shades,  they  wear  cotton  or  woollen  stuffs, 
generally  of  a  plain,  uniform  pattern,  or  dotted 
with  dainty  little  cloudy  designs,  whose  equally 
dark  tints  scarcely  differ  from  the  background 
itself.  Marine  blue  is  the  predominating  shade: 
to  such  an  extent  is  this  the  case  that  a  femi- 
nine crowd,  even  in  holiday  garb,  seems,  at  a 
distance,  one  mass  of  very  dark  blue,  a  swarm  of 
one  and  the  same  colour,  relieved  only  here  and 
there  by  a  few  dazzling  reds  or  fresh-looking 
tints  worn  by  babies  or  tiny  little  girls. 

The  form  of  these  dresses  is  well  known ;  they 
may  be  seen  painted  or  sketched  in  all  the 
Japanese  pictures  and  illustrations  with  which 
we  are  inundated.  The  wide,  flowing  sleeves 
leave  free  the  slightly  amber-coloured  arms,  which 
are  generally  well  shaped,  whilst  the  hands  are 
invariably  pretty.  The  dress  is  completed  by 
a  broad  sash,  called  an  obi,  usually  made  of  the 


198  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

finest  silk ;  the  regular  looped  bows,  resembling 
some  monster  butterfly  on  the  deHcate  little 
backs,  and  giving  that  particular  grace  to  a 
feminine  outline,  which  is  so  much  sought  after. 
Our  dull-coloured  silk  sunshades,  in  the  case 
of  certain  fashionable  ladies,  are  beginning  to 
replace  the  charming  painted  parasols  of  the 
past,  on  which  pleasing  thoughts  from  the  poets 
of  old  were  often  introduced  between  pictures  of 
flowers  and  birds.  Our  foot-gear  has  not  yet 
been  adopted  in  Tokio,  in  important  official  circles ; 
everywhere  else  the  ancient  sandal  is  worn. 
This  is  fastened  between  the  great  toe  and  the 
rest,  and  is  deposited  in  the  hall,  just  as  we  do  in 
the  case  of  walking-sticks  and  hats.  Sandals 
obstruct  the  entrances  of  fashionable  tea-houses, 
and  may  be  seen  piled  upon  one  another  on  the 
outer  steps  of  the  pagodas  when  important  re- 
ligious ceremonies  are  taking  place.  In  rainy 
weather,  when  going  out  into  the  streets,  they 
put  on,  over  the  sandals,  a  kind  of  clog  whose 
excessively  high  wooden  pattens  make  a  loud  clat- 
ter on  the  pavement,  as  they  hurry  along,  with 
dresses  tucked  up.     No  European  woman  could 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  199 

walk  half  a  dozen  yards  in  such  foot-gear  with- 
out falling.  These  ladies,  moreover,  walk  with 
heels  turned  outwards — such  being  the  fash- 
ion —  and  loins  slightly  forward :  doubtless 
the  outcome  of  an  hereditary  abuse  of  the  cxis- 
tom  of  bowing. 

Their  head-dress  also  is  well  known  to  the 
whole  world;  with  two  or  three  strokes  of  the 
brush  the  Japanese  artists  show  it  in  all  its  various 
aspects,  or  caricature  it  with  rare  skill.  What, 
however,  is  perhaps  not  so  well  known,  is  that 
the  women,  even  those  with  pretensions  to  the 
best  taste,  have  their  hair  combed  only  two  or 
three  times  each  week ;  their  chignons  and  bands 
are  so  firmly  set  up  by  specialists  in  this  partic- 
ular style  of  coiffure  that  they  will  remain  for 
several  days,  if  need  be,  without  losing  their 
perfect  smoothness  or  vivid  lustre.  It  must, 
however,  be  mentioned  that  ladies  invariably 
sleep  on  their  backs,  without  a  pillow,  the  head 
touching  nothing  whatsoever  and  sustained  by 
a  kind  of  small  lacquered  easel  which  fits  into 
the  nape  of  the  neck,  —  all  this  so  that  the  hair 
may  not  become  disarranged  during  the  night. 


200  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

I  had  also  forgotten  to  state  that  they  sleep  on 
the  ground  on  such  tiny  mattresses  that  in  our 
country  they  would  be  taken  for  small  quilts  or 
foot-coverings.  By  the  way,  at  nighttime, 
they  are  always  very  chastely  dressed  in  long 
and  invariably  blue  nightgowns,  whilst  small, 
unobtrusive  lamps,  veiled  behind  paper  frames, 
ever  keep  watch  over  their  dreams,  and  serve  to 
dispel  any  evil  spirits  of  darkness  which  may  be 
hovering  in  the  air  about  these  tiny  houses  of 
thin  wood. 

In  Japan,  the  poorer  women  and  those  of  the 
lower  middle  class  share  in  almost  every  kind 
of  work  carried  on  by  the  men.  They  are  skilled 
in  business  and  know  how  to  make  a  bargain ; 
they  cultivate  the  soil,  and  sell  their  produce; 
they  work  in  the  mills;  they  even  work  as 
street  porters. 

In  early  youth,  if  they  happen  to  be  pretty, 
they  frequently  leave  home  and  enter  into  ser- 
vice in  tea-houses  and  inns,  as  smiling  and  at- 
tractive httle  soubrettes.  There,  for  a  time, 
they  go  to  swell  the  nimibers  of  those  thousands 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  201 

of  mousmes,  whose  destiny  it  is  to  amuse  and 
attend  to  the  wants  of  customers  wherever  rest 
or  pleasure  or  drink  is  in  request.  In  fact,  it 
almost  seems  as  though  Japan  would  lose  its 
raison  d'etre  were  it  not  for  the  mousme.  The 
mousmes  are  countless  as  the  sands  on  the  sea- 
shore; indeed,  you  might  almost  think  there 
were  only  one,  multipHed  ad  infinitum,  with 
the  same  invariably  blue  dress  cut  very  low  in 
front,  the  same  dainty  laugh,  the  same  little 
coquettish  ways  and  mannerisms,  always  gay  and 
charming,  ready  for  any  amusement.  Not  only 
is  she  seen  in  great  numbers  in  towns  and  cities, 
behind  the  thin  paper  partitions  of  restaurants 
and  inns ;  but  even  out  in  the  open  country, 
wherever  any  particularly  attractive  site  is  en- 
countered, you  are  sure  to  come  across  a  tea- 
house cosily  nestling  amid  the  trees,  and  if  you 
enter,  it  is  once  more  the  mousme  —  always  the 
same,  always  smiling  —  who  greets  you.  She 
is  quite  as  artful  here  in  the  country  as  in  the 
main  thoroughfares  of  Nagasaki  or  Tokio.  Not- 
withstanding her  utter  lack  of  beauty,  the  mousme 
is  often  extremely  pleasant  and   nice,  for  she 


202  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

is  very  gay  and  young ;  once  she  has  passed  her 
prime,  no  one  would  tolerate  her  for  a  moment ; 
her  ephemeral  grace  would  immediately  be  con- 
verted into  an  apish  grimace.  As  a  rule,  how- 
ever, she  retires  before  she  is  out  of  her  teens, 
returns  to  the  bosom  of  her  family,  and  takes  a 
husband,  one  who  is  perfectly  resigned  and  will- 
ing to  shut  his  eyes  to  all  the  little  flirtations 
and  romances  she  has  passed  through  in  former 
days.  .  .  .  Besides,  in  Japan,  nothing  is  of 
much  consequence;  nothing  is  very  serious, 
neither  in  the  past,  nor,  a  la  rigueur,  in  the  pres- 
ent. .  .  .  And  there  is  such  a  spirit  of  drollery 
cast  upon  everything,  such  amusing  bonhomie 
shown  by  all,  that  one  feels  much  less  shocked 
in  that  country  than  anywhere  else,  even  by 
the  most  inadmissible  acts.  In  these  tiny  per- 
sons there  is  an  indescribable  blend  of  cunning 
trickery  and  childish  innocence  and  unconscious- 
ness, which  causes  one  to  pardon  them  with  a 
smile  and  feel  almost  disposed  to  see  something 
charming  in  their  little  lapses  and  peccadil- 
loes. .  .  . 
They  are  even  devoid  of  our  elementary  ideas 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  203 

as  to  the  impropriety  of  appearing  unclothed; 
they  dress  themselves  because  clothes  are  pretty 
and  artistic,  and  because  they  keep  one  warm  in 
winter.  But  whenever  it  is  necessary  to  dis- 
robe, —  on  taking  a  bath,  for  instance,  —  that 
does  not  annoy  them  to  any  great  extent.  Irre- 
proachably clean,  they  bathe  a  great  deal,  though 
without  making  the  slightest  mystery  of  the 
performance ;  in  Nagasaki,  a  town  far  less  Eu- 
ropeanized  than  Yokohama  or  Kobe,  the  large 
round  tubs  which  serve  as  baths  are  carried 
about  anywhere,  in  the  tiny  gardens,  for  instance, 
within  sight  of  the  neighbours,  with  whom  they 
chat  away  during  their  ablutions;  or,  in  the 
case  of  tradeswomen,  in  the  very  shops  and 
stores,  without  there  being  the  faintest  thought 
of  shutting  the  door  upon  the  customers  in 
consequence. 

All  the  same,  it  would  not  be  right  to  look 
upon  them  as  devoid  of  moral  sense,  or  even  as 
being  faithless  to  their  husbands :  here,  too, 
there  are  a  host  of  things  we  do  not  understand, 
innumerable  shades  of  difference  in  conduct 
very  difficult  to  grasp,  but  more  especially  dan- 


204  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

gerous  to  interfere  with.  .  .  .  There  !  I  have 
been  asked  to  write  what  may  be  read  by  every- 
body, on  the  subject  of  the  women  of  Japan, 
and  so  I  am  forced  to  leave  the  question  of  their 
morals  quite  untouched. 

There  can  be  no  doubt,  however,  that  they 
have  a  strong  family  sentiment,  that  they  tenderly 
love  their  children,  and  hold  their  ancestors,  both 
living  and  dead,  in  the  greatest  respect.  They 
are  admirable  mothers  and  grandmothers;  it 
is  delightful  to  see  how  gentle  and  devoted  they 
are  in  their  care  of  the  little  ones,  even  in  the 
lowest  classes  of  the  people,  —  the  affectionate 
intelligence  they  show  in  amusing  them  and  in- 
venting for  them  the  most  wonderful  toys. 

And  with  how  perfect  an  art,  with  what  in- 
tuition of  childish  drollery  and  profound  know- 
ledge of  what  is  becoming  to  the  tiny  faces,  do 
they  dress  them  in  the  most  dehghtfuUy  absurd 
little  gowns,  tie  up  their  hair  in  extraordinary 
chignons,  and,  in  a  word,  turn  them  into  the 
most  exquisitely  comical  babies  imaginable! 

Besides  this,  they  are  devoted  elder  sisters; 
at  any  time  you  may  see  little  girls  of  eight  or 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  205 

ten,  far  away  from  home,  enjoying  a  stroll  or  a 
game,  with  a  scarce  weaned  brother  whom  they 
keep  amused  in  the  gentlest  manner  possible, 
fastened  to  their  back  with  a  band  tied  round  the 
waist. 

To  take  another  line  of  thought,  I  knew  two 
sisters,  poor  orphan  girls,  who,  in  order  to  con- 
tribute towards  the  superior  education  of  a 
younger  brother,  the  glory  of  the  family,  had 
contracted  a  morganatic  marriage  with  a  rich 
old  man,  and  willingly  deprived  themselves,  on 
behalf  of  the  young  student,  of  all  personal  com- 
fort in  life. 

I  do  not  know  if  Japanese  women  are  alto- 
gether good  and  kind-hearted ;  at  all  events,  they 
are  neither  ill-natured,  rude,  nor  quarrelsome. 
Moreover,  their  poHteness  cannot  fail  to  be  any- 
thing else  than  an  invariable  quantity,  for  the 
Japanese  language  does  not  contain  a  single 
insulting  word,  and  even  amongst  fish  dealers 
and  street  porters,  only  the  most  polite  and 
dignified  expressions  are  used. 

I  once  saw  two  poor  old  women  on  the  beach, 


2o6  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

gathering  pieces  of  coal  that  had  been  washed 
ashore,  and  going  through  endless  ceremonies 
as  to  which  of  the  two  should  take  some  dis- 
puted lump;  then  a  most  unexpected  series  of 
bows  and  compliments  followed,  just  as  though 
they  had  been  marchionesses  of  the  old  regime. 

Notwithstanding  their  very  real  frivoHty  and 
their  continual  silly  laughter,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  they  resemble  dolls  worked  with  springs, 
it  would  be  quite  unfair  to  give  the  impression 
that  all  loftiness  of  thought  is  lacking  in  them; 
they  have  the  sentiment  of  the  poetry  of  things, 
of  the  mighty  and  vague  soul  of  nature,  of  the 
charm  of  flowers,  of  woods  and  forests,  of  silence 
and  moonbeams.  .  .  .  All  this  they  tell  in 
rather  affected  verse  which  possesses  the  grace 
of  the  foliage  and  reeds  —  at  once  very  natural 
and  very  improbable  —  which  we  find  painted 
on  silk  and  lacquer-work. 

In  a  word,  they  resemble  the  art  products  of 
their  own  country,  bibelots  of  the  utmost  refine- 
ment, but  which  it  is  prudent  to  sort  out  and 
scrutinise  very  carefully  before  sending  them  to 
Europe,  lest  some  obscenity  or  other  lie  hidden 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  207 

behind  a  bamboo  stem  or  beneath  a  sacred  stork. 
They  may  likewise  be  compared  with  those 
Japanese  fans  which,  when  opened  from  right 
to  left,  represent  the  sweetest  nosegays  imagi- 
nable ;  whereas  when  opened  in  the  other  direc- 
tion, from  left  to  right,  scenes  of  the  most  re- 
volting indecency  are  shown. 

Their  music,  of  which  they  are  passionately 
fond,  is  to  us  something  strange  and  far-away, 
like  the  soul  of  this  people.  When  young  girls 
meet  together  in  the  evenings  to  sing  and  play 
on  their  long-necked  guitars,  after  the  first 
smile  of  astonishment  there  comes  over  us  the 
impression  of  something  quite  unknown  and 
strange,  something  very  mysterious,  which 
years  of  intellectual  acclimation  would  never 
succeed  in  making  us  fully  understand. 

Their  religion,  too,  must  seem  very  compli- 
cated and  vague  to  their  frivolous  little  brains, 
when  even  the  most  learned  priests  of  the 
land  lose  themselves  in  the  symbols  and  cosmog- 
onies, the  metamorphoses  of  the  gods  and  the 
millennial  chaos  on  which  Indian  Buddhism  has 


2o8  Japanese  Women  hi  1890 

become  grafted  in  so  strange  a  fashion,  without 
destroying  anything. 

Their  most  serious  cult  appears  to  be  that  of 
ancestral  worship.  The  manes  or  lares,  in  every 
family,  have  a  perfumed  altar  of  their  own, 
before  which  long  prayers  are  recited,  morning 
and  evening,  without  there  being  any  absolute 
belief,  however,  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul 
or  in  the  persistence  of  the  human  "I"  as 
understood  in  our  Western  religions.  The  dead, 
almost  unconscious  themselves  of  their  own 
survival  as  spirits,  hover  about  in  a  kind  of 
neutral  state,  between  an  aerial  condition  and  a 
state  of  non-existence.  All  around  these  ancient 
little  houses  of  wood  and  paper,  which  have 
witnessed  a  succession  of  pious  generations  and 
whose  ancestral  altars  are  black  with  the  smoke 
of  incense,  there  forms  itself  in  the  air,  after  a 
time,  an  impersonal  ensemble  of  anterior  souls; 
something  like  an  ancestral  fluid,  which  looks 
down  upon  the  living  and  keeps  watch  over  them. 
Here,  too,  our  understanding  is  limited ;  in  the 
prevailing  darkness  we  have  to  come  to  a  halt 
before  intellectual  barriers  we  shall  never  cross. 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  209 

Along  with  religious  misinterpretations  which 
baffle  and  lead  us  astray  we  have  the  most 
curious  and  sombre  superstitions,  old  as  the 
world  itself  and  terrifying  to  listen  to,  as  night 
descends.  Beings  that  are  half  gods,  half 
ghosts,  haunt  the  darkness ;  at  the  crossways  in 
the  woods  stand  ancient  idols  to  which  strange 
powers  are  attributed,  whilst  there  are  miracu- 
lous stones  in  the  depths  of  the  forests.  .  .  . 

To  gain  even  an  approximate  idea  of  the  be- 
liefs of  these  women  with  their  Httle  slanting 
eyes,  all  I  have  just  said  must  be  blended  and 
jumbled  together,  and  then  an  attempt  made  to 
introduce  it  into  flighty  little  brains  which 
mostly  reject  with  a  laugh  the  very  thought  of 
death  and  sometimes  seem  as  frivolous  and 
giddy  as  a  bird. 

And  yet  they  are  attentive  and  imremitting 
in  their  pilgrimages  —  a  never  ending  series  — 
and  in  their  presence  at  all  the  temple  ceremonies 
and  festivals. 

During  the  fine  season,  two  or  three  times  each 
month,  they  betake  themselves  in  smiling  groups 


2IO  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

to  pagodas  delightfully  situated  out  in  the  coun- 
try. They  assemble  from  every  part  of  the 
country,  filling  the  tiny  roads  and  bridges  with 
an  endless  procession  of  azure  blue  dresses  and 
massive  chignons  of  jet-black  hair. 

In  the  large  towns  during  the  summer,  there  is 
a  pilgrimage  to  one  sanctuary  or  another  almost 
every  evening,  —  sometimes  in  honour  of  a  god 
so  ancient  that  no  one  has  any  exact  idea  of  the 
part  he  plays  in  the  control  or  management  of 
the  world. 

After  work  and  business,  dealing  in  curios  and 
second-hand  goods,  when  the  numberless  petty 
trades  have  ceased  their  monotonous  activities 
and  the  myriads  of  little  houses  and  shops  are 
beginning  to  shut  their  doors,  the  women  deck 
themselves  out,  adorn  their  hair  with  the  most 
extravagant  pins,  and  start  off  with  large  painted 
lanterns  at  the  end  of  flexible  staves,  in  their 
hands.  The  streets  are  thronged  with  these 
little  persons,  ladies  or  mousmes,  proceeding 
slowly  along,  in  sandals,  and  exchanging  charm- 
ing bows  with  one  another.  With  a  mighty  wav- 
ing of  fans,  the  rustling  of  silk,  and  the  prattle  of 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  211 

laughter,  either  at  the  fall  of  day,  in  the  moon- 
Kght,  or  when  the  stars  are  shining  overhead, 
they  mount  to  the  pagoda,  —  where  gigantic 
gods  await  them,  with  horrible-looking  masks, 
half  hidden  behind  golden  gates,  in  all  the 
wonderful  and  incredible  magnificence  of  the 
sanctuaries.  They  fling  coins  to  the  priests, 
throw  themselves  on  to  the  ground  in  prayer, 
the  while  beating  together  their  hands  with 
sharp  little  taps  —  clack,  clack  —  as  though  their 
fingers  were  made  of  wood.  Above  everything 
they  prattle  away,  turn  round,  think  of  other 
things,  and  do  their  best,  by  means  of  laughter, 
to  destroy  their  terror  of  the  supernatural.  .  .  . 
The  peasant  woman,  winter  and  summer  alike, 
wears  a  blue  cotton  dress.  From  a  distance, 
she  can  scarcely  be  distinguished  from  her 
husband,  who,  like  her,  wears  a  chignon  and  a 
dress  of  the  same  colour.  You  may  see  her 
daily  bending  over  her  task  in  the  tea  fields  or 
the  liquid  swamps  of  the  rice  plantations, 
wearing  a  coarse  hat  when  the  sun  is  blazing 
above ;  and  when  the  cold  bleak  wind  is  blowing, 
with  her  head  completely  wrapped  up  in  an 


212  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

invariably  blue  and  ugly  muffler,  showing  noth- 
ing but  her  almond-shaped  eyes.  The  droll  little 
Japanese  peasant  woman,  wherever  you  chance 
to  find  her,  even  out  in  the  most  abandoned 
parts  of  the  coimtry,  is  indisputably  far  more 
refined  than  our  Western  peasant ;  she  has  pretty 
hands  and  dainty  feet;  a  mere  trifle  would 
effect  a  complete  transformation  and  make  of 
her  a  very  presentable  china  vase  or  screen  sort 
of  lady,  whilst  as  regards  affected  manners  and 
mincing,  simpering  airs  there  would  be  very 
little  for  her  to  learn. 

Almost  invariably  she  cultivates  a  pretty 
little  garden  close  to  her  old  wooden  cottage,  the 
interior  of  which,  covered  with  white  mats,  is 
scrupulously  clean.  Her  kitchen  utensils,  her 
tiny  cups  and  pots  and  plates,  instead  of  being, 
as  is  the  case  in  France,  of  thick  earthenware 
painted  over  with  glaring  flowers,  are  of  transpar- 
ent china  adorned  with  those  dainty,  fine  pictures 
which,  in  themselves  alone,  testify  to  a  long 
heredity  in  art.  There  is  originality  in  her 
manner  of  decking  out  her  modest  ancestral 
altar,  and  she  can  arrange  in  vases,  with  a  hand- 


Japanese  Women  in  1890  213 

ful  of  leaves  and  flowers,  dainty  and  graceful 
bouquets  such  as  the  most  artistic  of  our  own 
women  would  scarcely  be  capable  of  putting 
together. 

Perhaps  she  is  more  honest  and  of  stricter 
morality  —  from  the  European  standpoint  — 
than  her  sister  in  the  town;  certainly  she  is 
more  reserved  towards  strangers  and  more 
timorous,  whilst  deep  in  her  nature  there  is 
considerable  mistrust  of,  and  hostility  against, 
these  intruders,  in  spite  of  her  smiling,  amiable 
welcome. 

In  the  villages  in  the  interior  of  Japan,  far 
from  the  recent  railroads  and  all  the  imports 
of  modern  civilization,  where  the  age-long 
immobility  of  the  country  has  not  been  dis- 
turbed, the  peasant  woman  must  be  very  slightly 
different  from  what,  centuries  ago,  her  most 
remote  ancestor  was,  —  that  ancestor  whose 
soul,  dissipated  by  the  flight  of  ages,  has  even 
ceased  to  hover  above  the  family  altar.  In  the 
so-called  "barbarous"  times  of  our  Occidental 
history,  when  our  remote  ancestors  had  some- 
thing of  the  savage  and  uncouth  coarseness  of 


214  Japanese  Women  in  1890 

primitive  life,  there  were  doubtless  in  these 
Oriental  islands  of  the  ancient  worid  the  same 
pretty  little  mincing  peasant  women,  the  same 
little  ladies  of  the  towns,  highly  civilized,  and 
bowing  to  one  another  in  the  same  adorable 
fashion.  .  .  . 

To  sum  up,  the  reason  that  Japanese  women 
of  every  rank  in  society  are  affected  and  finical 
in  mind  and  body,  artificial  and  prim;  the 
reason  their  very  soul  seems  rather  old  and  worn 
out,  so  to  speak,  from  the  beginning  of  life,  lies, 
it  may  be,  in  the  fact  that  their  race  has,  for  so 
many  centuries,  been  separated  from  the  other 
varieties  of  the  human  species,  living  on  its  own 
stock  and  never  being  renovated.  It  would  be 
unjust  to  bear  them  a  grudge  on  that  account, 
or  because  of  the  ugliness  of  their  organs 
of  vision ;  on  the  contrary,  we  must  be  pleased 
with  them  for  showing  themselves  so  amiable, 
graceful,  and  gay ;  for  having  made  of  Japan  the 
country  of  the  funniest  and  most  ingenious 
Uttle  things,  —  the  land  of  pretty  manners  and 
of  laughter.  .  .  . 


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